


The Parent Trap

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chaptered, M/M, Nature Versus Nurture, Parentlock, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 67,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never forgave Sherlock for the fall. So when he came back from the dead they decided to go their separate ways. Each took one of their identical, twin, one year old daughters (biologically Sherlock’s), cutting off all contact for the next sixteen years. John moved to the States, accepting an offer from an old mate to join the local police force, while Sherlock stayed in London, though not at Baker Street. They never intended to meet again. Though fate it seems has other plans when Artemis Holmes and Athena Watson meet by chance. But is it within their power to bring their parents back together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Holmes-Watson Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Tu a Londres y yo a California/Juego de gemelas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227387) by [MyLittleSecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleSecret/pseuds/MyLittleSecret)



**Artemis Holmes**

Long, fair fingers clasped the bow lightly but firmly as the violin sang, the music tinged with an emotion the player rarely tolerated in anything else. The music had been going on for hours; it helped the player to think, to analyze, and to deduce. There had only been the briefest pause as the pages of the original composition rustled as they were turned, or as the player carelessly pushed errant black curls backwards.

“Artemis,” a man plopped down on the sofa and steepled his hands underneath his chin, “That last run was flat,”

The music stopped with an angry twang, “I’m working on it, Sherlock, though I’m disappointed you didn’t find any eggs at the store. And sorry for your run in with one-two-no-three dogs: two terriers, one poodle. I know how you detest small animals.”

The man, who was the girl’s father but had long since consented to her calling him by his first name, smiled smugly, “Two poodles, one terrier, you really ought to give my treatise on dog fur patterns another once over. Pick up the smaller details. Though I am impressed with your progress on the Chopin piece. Though Ms. Quinn won’t move you up a chair position above Carlie, she’s sleeping with Carlie’s father.”

“Oh I knew that. They’ve been going at it four-no-five months. The plane tickets I saw a month ago and the first manicure was long before that. What clued you in?”

“At the Spring concert, she wasn’t wearing heels.”

“The shoes,” she hissed, “Of course. Are we going out to eat? Or do you have a date?”

“Very amusing. You know I don’t go on dates. Though by what I’m wearing and what I asked you to wear you should be able to figure out where we’re going.”

She smiled, “Caffè Positano,”

“Excellent,” he grabbed their coats, “Just for that I’ll let you go on that date you have planned with Brendan on Saturday. The one you weren’t going to tell me about. Aren’t you going to ask me how I know?”

“Oh no. Now that I think about it I left hints everywhere. Obvious, really,”

“Elementary,” he concurred.

**Athena Watson**

“Pass it here! Rebecca, I’m wide open! Now or never!” a tall, dark-haired girl yelled as she ran down the field.

Rebecca kicked the ball right to her, just as they had practiced in their run-throughs. _Excellent_. Athena then wove expertly between the enemy’s defensive line, seeing her father John, still wearing a cable knit sweater even on this rather warm day, cheering from the sideline. _Almost there, dad. Just you watch._

“Kick it in, Athena!” Rebecca and Ashley shouted as Emma got herself in position for a possible rebound off the net or a throw if the goalie managed to catch it—but it was hardly likely and everyone knew it, once Athena was this close to a goal she would get it done. And she had to. There were seconds remaining in the match. And this was the championship game. As a senior on the team, and captain she had an obligation to pull through, but in that moment she wasn’t thinking about all of that. Only about her feet on the grass and her path to that goal.

She analyzed her current position, the relative positions of the defenders and goalie, the angle and force required for the perfect shot. It was all science really. Then she kicked.

“Westwood Wildcats take the championship!” an announcer yelled as Athena found herself being attacked from all sides by her team and hoisted in the air.

But it was long after the chants of “ATH—E—NA! ATH—E—NA!” wore off and the victorious squad slinked back to their cars for the long drive home that Athena finally got to talk to the person she had wanted to see the moment she knew she had made the goal.

“Some shot,” John laughed, “In the nick of time too. They’ll be talking about that one for years.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah of course. Some British girl stealing the championship from right under their nose. No one’s going to forget that easily.”

“They don’t know I’m British dad. I don’t even have the accent.”

“I’m just joking. You did good. I never thought in a game of football—“

“Soccer, dad.”

“Athena the rest of the world calls it football, but you know what. I’ll let it rest for today. You won your _soccer_ championship. And I can’t argue for once.”

“Thank you,” she smiled smugly.

“I think we’re both too tired to go home and cook something up. We’ll eat out. Italian sound okay?”

“Perfect,” she agreed, eying the medal bouncing up and down on her chest, “Just perfect,”


	2. The Summer Camp

**The Holmes Household**

“Sherlock, a  _camp_? You’re not serious,” Artemis glanced at the brochure, “This is actually ridiculous. It’s a _soccer_ camp. In America. I don’t even play football.”

“Artemis, it’s not that bad, honestly,”

“Not that bad? Wait. This is for a case isn’t it? Alright, who do you want me to spy on while I’m there?”

“Not spy on. Just observe. There’s a difference.”

“Right. Definitely. Now tell me. Who is it?” Artemis grinned, “I need a case!”

“The camp counselor. He’s at the center of a drug trafficking ring’s New Mexico branch. I’d appreciate it if you could identify the rest of the area’s ring members for me. Make my work a little bit easier.”

“What are you going to be doing?” she demanded.

“Well it’s an international smuggling group. I just needed my best woman down at their base.”

“Sherlock, why didn’t you just tell me? Why the ‘go to a soccer camp’ excuse?”

“I’ve been looking over the books again. Working with your daughter to take down drug smugglers is not in the ‘bonding activities’ section. You sure you don’t want to try camping again? Or the dad-daughter dances thing?”

“Not the _How-to-Dad_ books again, Sherlock. I told you,” she sat him down, “I would much rather go to crime scenes than dad-daughter dances. Besides, you’re rubbish at camping.”

He smiled, “I was hoping you would say that. Lestrade texted me a few minutes ago. Want to come?”

“Who’s working forensics?” she made a face, “Anderson? We can’t work with Anderson,”

“Double homicide, we’ll make do,”

“Oh it’s Christmas!” she exclaimed, “What are we waiting for?”

**The Watson Household**

“Please dad, I think it will really improve my game,” Athena begged.

“I’m not sending you all the way to New Mexico,” John said, “We were planning to go to England over Christimas holidays,”

“Dad, we always go to England. And besides. Whenever we’re there. We never go see your old flat or your old life or—“

“Athena, I said I didn’t want to talk about it,” John said, “No football camp, end of discussion,”

“I can pay for the plane ticket myself,” she offered.

“Can you pay for my peace of mind knowing you’re on the other side of the country?” he sarcastically retorted.

“I’ll be on my best behavior, come on. Please.”

“It’s an all-girls camp?” he asked.

“Yes,”

“You’re saying people around the world who like football come to New Mexico to do this camp.”

“Yes,”

“Oh what the hell,” John sighed.

“Dad, you’re the greatest,”

“I know. And because I’m the greatest I’m reminding you it’s your turn to vacuum the upstairs.”

“It’s your turn. You switched me for garbage duty. But I’ll let this one slide, you’ve had a rough day at work, kidnapping case right? And your new partner on the force, Donny, he smokes doesn’t he? And he has a cat that’s getting hairs all over the patrol car, two cats, one Himalayan, one Persian,”

“Very impressive,” John grumbled, “Vacuum’s in the closet.”

It had ceased to surprise him, over the years. The sheer amount of Sherlock that was in her. Sure the looks bore a strikingly resemblance of course, but the deduction, where the hell had she picked that up? Oh well, he still found it highly impressive. It was one of the many things about Athena that he loved. One of the many things that he had once loved about Sherlock Holmes.


	3. The Meeting

“Think he’s hot don’t you?” Athena asked the girl holding binoculars, “Don’t blame you,”

“I think no such thing,” Artemis replied, “Who are you anyway?”

“Athena Watson, and hey, if you haven’t got a thing for him why are you ogling him with _binoculars_?” Athena pointed out, “It’s kind of weird.”

“Well I don’t fancy him, and I’d appreciate it if you would kindly not interfere in my investigation, go do some…football drills or something,”

“There’s another thing, I saw you on the field yesterday, you don’t seem like you even like playing, also weird, as this is an international soccer camp. What are you investigating?” Athena snapped.

“That’s no business of yours,” Artemis turned around, her long black curls flipping over her shoulder, and she was about to give this American girl a piece of her mind when she realized with a shock that they had an identical facial structure, “What the bloody hell?”

“You look like some sort of British boarding school version of me,” Athena gaped, mentally imagining herself with Artemis’ longer hair and barrette, and her skirt and knee high socks.

“I do go to a British boarding school, excellent _deduction_ , and you seem to be some sort of cheap American knockoff of me, probably only walked down here on your way to the rec center, and as a matter of fact it’s you who’s had the hots for Counselor Derek this whole time,” Artemis retorted.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Athena asked.

“What?”

“The deduction thing, out loud, it’s been driving everyone crazy all week, I mean I do it too, sort of, but I keep it to myself,”

“My father doesn’t believe in censoring our speech for the benefit of idiots,”

“Well my dad thinks if you’ve only got nasty things to say you’re better off keeping mum, it helps you relate to people,”

“Well that’s gotten him real far in life considering he’s been working at the same police squad now for years, hasn’t even made lieutenant,”

“Artemis Holmes? You’re the daughter of the detective who threw himself off a ledge,”

“My father is a genius,” Artemis said sharply.

“Mine is a war hero,” Athena crossed her arms and glared.

“We still haven’t addressed the elephant in the room, but as this conversation has been going on I’ve taken the opportunity to—“

“Yeah yeah, to analyze my facial structure and hair patterns and you have concluded that—“

“We are in fact—“

“Identical twins of course—“

“Which does indicate that—“

“Our parents were once married to each other—“

“Got us using a surrogate and then separated—“

“Meaning that we are—“

“Sisters by blood,” Artemis finished cleanly.

They both stared at each other for a minute.

“John Watson, I think that’s the name of my father’s old flatmate, they used to live on Baker Street together before I was born,” Artemis began.

“I don’t know Artemis I think they were much more than flatmates, considering my dad has your dad’s other kid,”

“Point taken,” Artemis stroked her chin, “Truce? I take back what I said about your father. Now that I know he’s also my father.”

“Me too,” they shook hands.

“So, the big question…” Athena started to say.

“Biologically speaking we are Sherlock’s,” Artemis replied.

“You call him _Sherlock_?” Athena asked incredulously.

“I always have, you know it’s weird that we’re not more freaked out about this.”

“Yes. I don’t think it’s had time to sink in yet. I always analyze first and then emotionally react. It’s why I’m so good at soccer,”

“Football,”

“Soccer, you know what we have more important things to talk about. I thought John was my biological dad. That I just had a dark haired, sharp cheek-boned mom he never talked about,”

“The surrogate could have been related to John,”

“Aunt Harry, that’s why she’s all weird around me sometimes, oh my fucking god,” Athena said, “And don’t call him John, it freaks me out,”

“Right, sorry,” Artemis paused, “Well I’ve known Sherlock’s gay for years now, and I’ve always wanted to meet my other father, I had a hunch there was one for the longest time,”

“My dad isn’t gay, he dates women, he’s been seeing one seriously for a while now, Mary,”

“Athena I have a proposition you might be interested in, might we—“

“Trade places once this camp is over—“

“So that we might meet our other parent for the first time—“

“And possibly be able to—“

“Get them talking again so that—“

“They could get back together—“

“Though that’s horribly cliché—“

“Totally cliché I know but this is—“

“A once in a lifetime chance so we should just—“

“Do it,” Athena ended it, “Wow we really are sisters,”

Artemis passed over the binoculars, “I was investigating him based on some intel I got that he’s part of a drug ring, but he is kind of cute, care to take a look?”

“Don’t mind if I do,”


	4. The Swap

“I suppose I’ll have to cut my hair, it’s a shame,” Artemis said sadly.

“You’ll look a lot cooler though, and a bit less uptight, lose the barrette too,” Athena pointed out.

“I prefer being a bit put together, Sherlock always wears a suit or a dressing gown,”

“Dad wears a lot of sweaters, he calls them jumpers, not really my style though,”

“How’s your British accent?” Artemis asked.

“Fancy a cuppa mate?” Athena ad-libbed horribly.

“Thankfully my American is better,” Artemis raised her eyebrows, “So you’re never going to fool Sherlock if you talk. So you can write out on a piece of paper that you’ve chosen to study the effects of silence on clarity of thought.”

“He’ll buy that nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense, he’s done it once before,”

“I’m assuming our handwriting is fairly similar,”

“Close enough I should think,”

“Don’t worry too much about John, if he thinks you’re acting weird he might think it’s another _phase_ ”

“What kind of phases have you had?”

“Oh a lot, I was goth once,”

“That’s ghastly,” Artemis made a face.

“I actually enjoyed it at the time,” Athena admitted, “Though ultimately not for me,”

“What killed the joy of it for you?”

“Nothing, I moved on to soccer,”

**Britain**

Athena waited at the London airport for the man in the picture Artemis had given her. Seeing as she was his spitting image she didn’t think it’d be that difficult. But she hadn’t counted on him coming up behind her dressed as an airline pilot.

“Artemis, excellent to see you, walk with me, suspect at Terminal 2, flight was alright?” the man who was her other dad grabbed her by the shoulders and was suddenly walking very quickly towards the terminal.

At this cue to speak she remembered the note Artemis had written out for her and handed it to him.

_Studying the effects of silence on mental clarity. I shall communicate via notepad. –AH_

“Fascinating, doesn’t really improve concentration from when I did it, but you’re welcome to try. I might even join you once we’re back home but look there is our man,” he didn’t even glance at her.

Athena’s pulse skyrocketed, the guy Sherlock had pointed out was clearly a drug dealer. She considered him carefully. Concealed firearm? Probably. They were in the section of the airport before the security checkpoint. He looked thirty to thirty-three. Single. Divorced. Chain smoker. She deduced quietly to herself as Sherlock made his out loud and concluded exactly what the criminal was doing here. Was this what life with Sherlock was always like? She watched him as he rattled off deductions a mile a minute, then cautioned her to stay there.

“I’ll question him myself, then we’ll be off, you look a bit dazed,” he dashed off leaving her standing confused.

Once in the cab home she was still a little in shock, she had gathered from Artemis that they often solved crimes together, but she had only been with him for two minutes for crying out loud.

_How was your trip? –SH_

He grabbed the notepad from her. And curiously enough signed his initials just as Artemis had. Which was odd, Athena thought. Her dad had the odd habit of signing his texts to her just the same.

_Perfectly dull besides the case. –AH_

She wrote back. Trying to be as close to an Artemisian response as possible.

_Solved the double homicide without you, I’m afraid. It was connected to the bank break-in. –SH_

_Ah, right. –AH_

_Don’t feel too bad. We still have another crime scene to visit tonight if you’re up for it. –SH_

_Sounds great. –AH_

She wrote with a flourish. She was interested in this man. And wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. For the first time in her life she was meeting someone whose mind seemed to match the speed of her own. Yet she missed John too. John’s warmth and his jokes. She had expected Sherlock to hug her when he saw her at the airport. To seem a bit more outwardly pleased that she, his daughter, had come back.  But he had not.

After dumping her stuff at his flat she followed him to a crime scene. A man she learned was called Inspector Lestrade led them to a room with a body. And though Artemis had warned her she might see corpses, she had not quite been prepared for the sight of this decapitated, bloody woman.

“Artemis are you alright?” Sherlock grabbed her as she swooned.

“That’s odd, never thought your girl would faint at the sight of blood, thought you two get off on it,”

“She’s just come back from America, I’ll just take her back to the flat, might have caught some bug,” he steadied her as she got back up.

Once back at the flat she collapsed on to the sofa, god it had been a long day. What with the flight here. Two crime cases.

_Want to play some violin? Usually does the trick when you feel terrible. –SH_

Athena gulped, what would she do, she could not play violin.

_Not right now. Not feeling it. –AH_

_Very well. I’ll play. What piece? –SH_

_Um. Whatever strikes your fancy. –AH_

Athena and John didn’t quite follow classical music.

Sherlock looked at her for a long time. Intently. Narrowing his eyes. But finally picked up the violin in his hands and without looking at any sheet music for guidance he began to play.

Athena had heard this song before. Once upon a dream. And as he played she felt as if she had heard no more beautiful sound in her entire life and sincerely wondered how she had lived all these years without hearing her other dad play the violin. She wondered if Artemis could play like this, whether the two of them had played duets together, and felt the slightest bit of jealousy for her crime solving, violin-playing sister as she drifted off to sleep.

Sherlock watched her fall asleep and continued playing till the song was over. Then grabbed the notepad and considered it for a few moments. Observed her face. The way she had behaved all day.

_It’s been years since you’ve fallen asleep to this song. I composed it for you when you were three-months old, though you could hardly remember that. I’ll be out on the case in the morning when you read this. Should be back in an hour or two. –SH_

Then he walked over to the bookcase, and turned to a random page, looking at the number on it for a few minutes.

He picked up his cell and was about to text but thought better of it, and called it instead, “I know this line is reserved for emergencies. We agreed. But this sort of is.”

“Yes, she’s with me. The one coming to you will be Artemis.” He continued.

“I suppose we could let them play the ruse out. They obviously wanted to meet us.”

“I see. A week it is. Yes John, I agree. If anything good ever came from us having been…”

“Goodbye John.” He put the phone down.

**America**

“How was camp?” Artemis felt herself being hugged by this jumper wearing man with blonde hair, which was odd, Sherlock never hugged.

“Great yeah,” she faked her American accent perfectly.

He clapped her on the back, “Scored lots of goals?”

“Yes, I did. Lots of them,” she tried to sound convincing.

“So,” he said, “What’s the plan? I have the night shift. So it’s up to you.”

“The night shift? At the police station where you work?”

“Yes,” John smiled, “At the police station where I’ve always worked.”

“Of course, yes,” damn it, Artemis thought, she was terrible at this, “So. Um. Solve any new cases?”

John smirked to himself, of course Sherlock’s would be interested in the cases, “You’ve never been particularly interested in my police cases before. What with lacrosse, and _soccer_ and being President of the Student Government, though I’m glad of it,”

“I’d love to see your work dad,” Artemis said beaming, “Show me everything,”

John laughed, “Yeah of course, we’ll get right on it,”

John had honestly forgotten what it was like to work with a Holmes. And he suspected had Athena ever come down to the station herself it would have gone rather like this. Artemis had helped him solve case after case as he showed her the files. They made a pretty good team, John found himself thinking, and felt the hole in his chest as he remembered what a good team he and Sherlock had been. Yet as much as he saw Sherlock in this girl, he could also see himself. Sure a lot of the mannerisms were Sherlock’s. Even as she was pretending to be Athena, while deducing she sunk back into her real personality. A bit of the posh, elitist nature was there. The little frenzy he got into while processing all the data and coming to the answer. The way he had used to look at John when he offered the key bit of insight that led him to the answer. It was there. It was all there. But as Sherlockian as she was, she was also strikingly like him.

The sarcasm, he thought, was at least partly his. The way she related with the rest of his team. She was warmer by far to people she wasn’t close to than Sherlock had ever been. The way she flirted with that junior officer in the corner. Sex had always alarmed Sherlock, John remembered, and then blushed, well they had taken care of that. Oh, seeing her had brought him back to the good days. And the good days always reminded him of how the good days ended. And he knew it wasn’t fair of him to see the fall every time he saw this wonderful, wonderful girl, so he didn’t. But the very fact that they had met like this, after years, the fact that he hadn’t got to raise her himself, reminded him painfully of it.

**Britain**

The week had gone by quickly. Sherlock had taken her to meet her Uncle Mycroft. They had gone out walking in London. More crime scenes. Though she had done far better. Every night he played for her that same song, and after seeing the first morning’s note she knew why she remembered. And she found him growing on her, and she wondered if her dad had fallen in love with this man the same way. Yes, he was cold, brisk. Deduced everything in sight. But the life he lived was amazingly unique. Every problem people brought to him more crazy and more unique than the last.

But one thing had bothered her from the beginning. Did he care? Had he cared that he had to give her up when the two of them got separated? She couldn’t really tell. He felt so distant at times, off in his own world.

The woman called Sally had called him a sociopath. Apparently it was an old feud between them. But when they got home she had to ask him about it.

_Sherlock are you really a sociopath? –AH_

_Technically no. I got into the habit of saying it long ago. –SH_

_How do you know you’re not? Why would you call yourself that? –AH_

_I always found that it was a good description for the purposes of convincing the general masses that I really did not care for their petty troubles. Which I don’t. –SH_

_You don’t care? At all? –AH_

_No. I don’t care generally. I care specifically. –SH_

_I see. –AH_

Athena wrote her sister’s initials sadly. Wishing rather childishly that he knew that she was not Artemis.

_There are only a few people you know for whom I have truly cared. Mrs. Hudson. Inspector Lestrade. Uncle Mycroft. Just to name a few. –SH_

_Anyone else? –AH_

She wrote rather nervously and could not meet his eye. He saw what she had written and held the pad up in his hand.

_Athena Watson. My ridiculous daughter. Of course more than this entire world, I love you. –SH_


	5. The Reveal

**Britain**

Sherlock had never been hugged like this. Not by Artemis, who espoused his handshake philosophy, and was shaping up to be a lot more like her Uncle Mycroft than could be reasonably expected for a teenage girl. Artemis had grown up reserved, perhaps in a misguided effort to be more like him, and he instantly felt guilty as he felt the tight grip of she who was Artemis’ twin. That would have been the difference if Artemis would have grown up with John, she wouldn’t have had to be closed off, not influenced by both Sherlock and Mycroft to be as emotionally repressed as they were.

“Oh I’m sorry, I know you don’t like this sort of thing, but for so long. So long. You were just this faceless dark-haired woman that didn’t love me enough to be a part of my life,” Athena said.

“No it’s fine,” Sherlock patted her head awkwardly, “I wanted to be. I wanted. So many times.”

She pulled away and rubbed her eyes a bit, “I guess you’ll be sending me back. Getting Artemis. She’s like you, right? Smart. Dresses well. Likes decapitated bodies. That’s…um…that’s why you picked her.”

Sherlock looked a bit confused, “There were no discernible differences between you two at the time. And I assure you that you are more like me than you realize. As for the ways in which we differ, those are the ways you are like John. Who, despite our strained relationship now, remains to this day the best man, and the wisest human being I have ever known.”

Athena saw the sadness in his eyes and realized suddenly that perhaps he still loved John. The way he said that. It certainly seemed so.

“What happened between you two?” she asked cautiously.

“Long story,” he sat back down on the sofa, “I would have to start with a man named Mike Stamford. The local hospital St. Bart’s. Serial suicides. And a very important question.”

“What question is that? I’d love to hear this story,” she sat down next to him.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

**America**

Artemis checked the cell she had packed for Brendan’s texts.

_Thanks for letting me take you out. The boys and I had a good laugh about it afterward. Me dating the freak girl. Anyway this is just to tell you that we’re not actually an item. Cheers._

She stared at it. And quite calmly turned the phone off.

It had been quite a week. John had taken her to see a baseball game. Eat a hot dog. It was all so American, but John was so funny. Driving around in the police cruiser with him was a real thrill. He knew almost everyone in town. People waved at her on the street. Athena was well-known around here. A lot of Athena’s friends called the home phone asking for her but she claimed to have other plans. John, oddly enough, didn’t seem too surprised.

Oh to be Athena, she thought irrationally one night as she fell asleep in her sister’s bed. Such a normal daily routine. Nice normal house, no criminals and clients coming in day in and day out. And of course there was John. Or _dad_ as even she had taken to calling him in her head. There was a sturdiness, a steadiness to him that Sherlock didn’t have. He had taken her to play basketball on the hoop on their garage. They had played racketball out on the neighborhood court. Sometimes when he passed by he would just tousle her hair. When she was reading Athena’s books he would sometimes show up with a cup of tea, also odd, she noted, that Athena should drink tea in America. Before going out on dates with this Mary woman he would make sure everything was absolutely all right before stepping out the door.

She had never wanted normality, she thought. And John wasn’t normal. He wasn’t a genius himself but a conductor of light. She felt his appreciation for every smart thing she did or said. Through observing his work and the way he treated people she deduced that he was a man of great ethics, a loyal man. No not a genius. But something better. A good man. She wondered whether seeing this all those years ago was how Sherlock had come to love this man. And as she drifted off to sleep she felt the slightest bit of jealousy for her popular, athletic, sister who was the only one of the two of them who could _really_ be John’s daughter at all.

They popped in a Bond movie one night, and John asked her if she had seen any of them before. Which she thought was odd. He’s only been living with Athena her entire life. But she was still wrapped up in a regrettable thought spiral about Brendan, one she was sure her rational mind could escape within the hour, and she just replied no without thinking.

“Well then we have to see one,” he put in _Dr. No_ , “Quality British television.”

“Do you think I’m a freak?” she asked suddenly.

“No,” he said rather sharply, “I do not. Who told you a thing like that?”

“Boyfriend. Well I suppose he wasn’t,” she said, “Still. I don’t care. I know I’m a genius. High functioning sociopath. It makes people…uncomfortable.”

Often when John had seen Athena growing up he had thought of it as a kind of a window to Sherlock’s childhood. But seeing Artemis, he realized, was an even more accurate look. Sherlock had probably been used like this time and time again. That’s what made him the way he was by the time John met him. Unwilling to trust people. Unwilling to offer a piece of himself to someone else because he was afraid of getting hurt. And John hadn’t been around when Sherlock was young. But he was here now.

“First of all, we are not doing this again, you are not a high functioning sociopath,” John said, “Second of all. Whoever told you this is not worth your time. And lastly, you can’t just brush this under the rug like this. You _do_ care. You need to ask yourself why.”

“They don’t like hearing the truth about themselves. That’s why.”

“No that’s why _their_ dickheads. That’s their problem. Why do you care so much what they think?”

“I don’t know!” she snapped, “I know I shouldn’t. But I just thought. Once. That someone liked me even after I had deduced everything there is to know about them. That they saw it as the gift that it is.”

“It is a gift, Artemis, it’s fantastic,”

“Well,” she said morosely, “That’s not what most people say,”

Artemis had seldom been hugged like this. Sherlock was certainly capable of feeling strong emotion, but not of showing it like this. And though she was sure she meant the world to him, he didn’t really say it. Not out loud. Their secret medium had always been music. The duets. The violin.

“Did Sherlock tell you?” she asked as she pulled away after a moment.

“Sherlock never keeps a deduction to himself. He never could. And people like this boyfriend of yours might not appreciate that. But I loved him for it. And someday, a guy, or girl, as it’s all fine, will love you for it. That’s my promise. You understand?”

“I do,”


	6. Let's Dance

_Twenty years earlier_

“Sherlock, let’s dance,” John laughed.

“No John, there’s people, I am not,” Sherlock shook his head.

“You have to dance at your own wedding you berk,” John protested.

“Oh really? What are you going to do?”

“I might take back a vow or two, you never know,”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said smugly, “You said _for life_ ”

“Oh shut up you twat, we should dance,”

“I suppose, this one time, it couldn’t hurt, but I get to use your old bedroom for experiments,”

“You’re a real romantic you are, here we are getting married and you’re giving me images of fingers in the microwave,”

“You can always back out now, find a nice boring woman, settle down—“

“Shut up, you know I love you,”

“Of course, it’s elementary,”

_Eighteen years earlier_

“Sherlock I think we should have a kid,” John said out of the blue as they came home from a case.

“John I hate to rain on your party, but as we’re two men—“

“Sherlock, you know what I mean, Harry’s willing to do it,”

“Excellent, your sister the former alcoholic,”

“She’s reformed, she’s in perfect health, I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it was a good idea, at least consider it,”

“John I can’t believe, having seen Mycroft and I, that you of all people would endorse passing on the Holmes genes,”

“Actually I enjoy the idea of little Sherlocks,”

“Do you?”

“Yeah why?”

“No,” Sherlock put up their coats, “I always thought. If we ever did. That it’d be a girl.”

“A girl. That’s an interesting idea,”

“You know John just because we can’t procreate this way doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate this momentous decision with some sex,”

“That’s one strange way to invite a man to bed,”

“Stranger than the time I held the jumpers hostage?”

“No nothing can quite beat that,”

_Seventeen Years earlier_

“John were you aware of the frequency at which babies defecate when you decided it was okay that we have _two_?” Sherlock snapped.

“No, Mr. Science, I thought that was your department,” John groaned, “I haven’t slept. In weeks.”

“Their eight-months old now, you still think it’s too early to introduce the violin?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock, you have to be able to stand upright first,”

“Right, yes. Understandable. Oh John I should have had kids earlier. It would have prevented my drug addiction. Honestly. With them around. I’m never bored,”

“It’s ridiculously endearing how they have you wrapped around their little fingers,” John smiled.

“They do not,”

“You put on a sock puppet show yesterday. Today you watched an hour of cartoons. And just tonight you were rocking them to sleep for god only knows how long.”

“Shut up John, is it so wrong for a grown man to enjoy cartoons?”

“Though you’re certainly the only parent who can stage a crime scene using sock puppets. Was it really necessary to cut off one of the heads?”

“I was attempting to make it as realistic as possible. Oh for god’s sake.”

“What?”

“I hear crying. Your turn John.”

“Come with me. You can talk to them about the different types of tobacco ash. Put them right to sleep.”

“Very amusing,”

_Sixteen Years earlier_

“I can’t choose between them,” John said after pacing about, “I just can’t.”

“John we have to do this. You said we couldn’t be together. We just have to put our emotions aside and do it,” Sherlock sighed.

“Yes I know how easy it is for you to put your emotions aside and make the logical choice,” John snapped, “But I can’t. Alright?”

“How many times do I have to apologize, John? I did what I had to do,” Sherlock said resignedly.

“Well know I’m doing what I have to do. You let me think you were _dead_ for a year Sherlock. I celebrated their first birthday without you.”

“They’re only a year and eight months old now. They won’t remember,” Sherlock said, but despite the callous way he said it, inside it hurt.

“I’m the one who’ll remember, Sherlock,” John said, “Everything. The funeral. Matching black dresses. I let them touch the casket. I held their hands and took them to your _grave_. And they didn’t understand. They cried for you but I couldn’t tell them that you were never, ever, coming back. Most days the only reason I didn’t end it was because I still had them, because there was some piece of you still with me. You don’t know what that was like.”

“John I’m sorry, give us another chance, John please, let’s dance together one more time,”

“Sorry Sherlock, not this time,”


	7. The Airport

“So they found us out?” Artemis said softly on the phone.

“Yeah, father knew from the first night,” Athena said on her end.

“Father?”

“I can’t call him Sherlock, and I can’t call him dad, what was I supposed to do?”

“Oh I don’t know, try out padre, _mon pere_ , papi,”

“Won’t that just annoy him?”

“That’s the point, sister mine, anyway there’s something I need to tell you,”

“What’s that?”

“This Mary woman, I think dad’s in danger of proposing to her soon,”

“They’ve been going steady for a while now. But I swear, I think father still loves dad.”

“I think dad still loves father.”

“What do we do?” Athena asked.

“I don’t really have a plan yet, I was hoping you could help,”

“Well father told me the story of how they met. I think if they just solve another crime together, they’ll fall in love again.”

“Could it be that simple?” Artemis paced about with the phone.

“I think they’ve been missing each other for years. This is just a little push.”

“We can’t stage a crime Athena, they’d catch on instantly.”

“So what do we do? I mean Sherlock’s flying me back to Boston tomorrow.”

“Maybe we won’t have to stage the crime at all. That drug ring Sherlock was investigating, I think it might be centered here.”

“Perfect! It is?”

“From what I deduced from that counselor, yes.”

“Right, gotta go. I think I hear him coming.”

“See you soon,” Artemis hung up the phone.

***

It had felt strange hearing Sherlock’s voice over the phone. They had kept only the emergency line open all those years. Sherlock knew if he had started giving John updates on Artemis, on their life in Britain, and John had done likewise the girls would have found out. Then demanded to be part of each others’ lives. And John hadn’t wanted to be part of Sherlock’s life at all. Now that they were older, John supposed, Artemis and Athena could see each other independently. He could be cordial enough to Sherlock when he had to meet him. That would be that. But even an ocean away, a few minutes of Sherlock’s voice had brought him hurtling back to memories of the good days. Even all these years later the draw of that man was strong, unbearably strong. Now in a few hours John would pick him up at the airport, take him back to his and Athena’s house in Boston, the four of them together again for the first time in sixteen years, as if nothing had changed. The Holmes-Watsons. Not true of course. Everything had changed.

***

Sherlock was listless all through the plane ride. With Athena plugged in to her ipod, he made short work deducing everyone in economy class, and spent the rest of the trip reciting the Fibonacci sequence in his mind trying to get himself to fall asleep. When finally it worked his daughter was nudging him awake telling him it was time to get off. Oh god, why did John have to move to a place as dull as America?

The thought of seeing John again had been dominating his thought lately. John had always occupied a soft corner in that mind. Right in between murder and Mrs. Hudson. But it had been years, Sherlock had thought he had buried that ridiculous bit of sentiment away. But no, it seemed. The pain was as raw as ever.

Athena and Artemis ran to each others arms and shrieked upon seeing each other. Sherlock wasn’t sure how he should greet John, so he extended his hand.

John shook it, “Sherlock, how was your flight?”

“Tedious,” sparks went up Sherlock’s arm at John’s touch.

“Let’s go home before it gets dark,” Athena said brightly.

“Oh I should probably head to a hotel. Would. Um. Hate to impose.” Sherlock said quickly.

“Nonsense,” Athena took his hand, “Father can stay in the spare room, can’t he dad?”

“Well,” John coughed awkwardly, “I suppose if that wouldn’t make him too uncomfortable.”

“Then it’s settled, come on Sherlock,” Artemis tugged his shoulder, “You’re going to love America,”

Sherlock looked at John apologetically, “If it isn’t too much trouble, then.”

John laughed nervously, “Oh no. Not at all. Mary was supposed to be staying with us but she cancelled anyway. Staying with her mother in New Hampshire.”

“That’s too bad,” Athena said, “I was really looking forward to seeing her.”

“Yes, what a shame,” Artemis concurred, smiling, “Dad you should tell Sherlock about that kidnapping case.”

“Right well,” John sighed, “I suppose we have an entire car ride for that.”

“A kidnapping?” Sherlock perked up, “I mean yes of course, we should do baggage-claim first. That would be the responsible thing.”

“The responsible thing,” John repeated, “Oh yeah. That’s always what you do.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Not this again.”

Athena sensed a row coming so she pointed out the window, “Hey guys! I think we’re going to have a white Christmas!”


	8. Christmas Lights

“To think after all this time, they still have us wrapped around their little fingers,” John said as he found himself next to Sherlock on the sofa, the girls had gone up to Athena’s room, no doubt catching up on sixteen years apart.

“I should break out the sock puppets.”

“It is a bit weird though. Remember our last Christmas when it was the four of us?”

“How could I forget? We took the girls to the department store and Artemis puked on Father Christmas.”

“I don’t blame her. Didn’t you say he was a heroin addict? Maybe she smelled it on him. Never too early to start deductions.”

“That’s my line,”

“Shut up,” John said, “Well there’s work to do. It’s Christmas Eve. Haven’t got all the lights up on the house. Or the tree.”

“Since I’m here I might as well help,”

“I don’t recall you ever having been that good at decoration,”

“Nonsense John. I am a genius. I can handle a few colored lights,”

“Come on then. Put on that ridiculous coat and scarf. I’ll get the ladder.” John walked off in the direction of the garage.

Putting up Christmas lights with Sherlock was an exercise in patience. For a person who said he didn’t care about appearances he was more than OCD about the arrangement, the juxtaposition of the colors, and the fact that some of the lights were broken.

“Honestly John, if we’re doing this we should do it right,” he said from down on the ground.

“Oh look at us, bickering like an old married couple,” John sighed, “Hand up those red ones will you,”

“We are an old married couple, though technically divorced,” Sherlock grabbed some from the cardboard box, “There you go. Does it always snow this much in Boston?”

“Usually yes,” John got down from the ladder, “I forgot to ask. How’s the business in London?”

“Generally dull, an interesting case shows up occasionally,”

“I see, how bloody does it have to be in order to be interesting?”

“Can we not do this here?”

“Right sorry, I wouldn’t want to wreak havoc on your emotions, especially on this holiest of days,”

“That Christmas I was gone, is that what you’re referring to?”

“Good deduction, pass up the green lights,”

“I’m also referring to Artemis’ first steps. The first time Athena said my name. When I finally taught them how to correctly say _your_ name. Of course I couldn’t tell them who it belonged to.”

“How many times do I have to apologize?”

“Let’s see, until you mean it,”

“I do mean it,” Sherlock snapped, “And if you weren’t so pig-headed you would see that. It was hard on me too not being with you and our girls.”

“Oh it was hard on you was it?” John got down from the ladder, “Really? Would you like to tell that to my psychosomatic limp?”

“It was always in your head John,” Sherlock retorted, “If you could only just think clearly. For once.”

And John was angry. Furious. So before he knew it he had grabbed some snow off the ground and chucked it at Sherlock Holmes’ infuriating face.

“Think on that, Sherlock,” he smirked.

“Oh you don’t want start this,” Sherlock threw one right back, the Christmas lights forgotten.

John ducked and threw another one. Sherlock chased him around the back of the house and hit him square on the back. That was it. That was the last straw. John dropped the snowball in his hand and tackled the consulting detective into the snow.

“John that hurts, get off of me,” Sherlock protested, “This is childish.”

“Does it hurt? Good,” John didn’t move, “And don’t talk to me about being childish. You with your ‘Oh John I’m bored’. ‘Oh John I need nicotine’.”

“John,” Sherlock’s chest heaved, “Maybe you should get off of me. People might talk.”

At this John released him and sat at his feet, “What’s wrong with us, Sherlock?”

“Shall I list alphabetically or categorically?”

“You know what I mean,”

“John, I’m sorry, I mean it”

“It’s alright Sherlock,” John patted his leg, “Come on now. Let’s go get those lights up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did end up changing the time span of the story to the winter holidays instead of summer. I edited the previous chapters to match, so no worries :)


	9. The Night Before Christmas

“So this Mary, you two been seeing each other long?” Sherlock asked casually as they decorated the tree.

“Just a few months actually. But when it’s right it’s right. She’s great,” John smiled as he hung up an ornament.

“Is that the skull ornament I bought?” Sherlock asked, “I’m happy for you, John. I’m glad she makes you happy.”

“She does, really happy,” John looked at the skull for a second, “I can’t believe I let you buy that,”

“I think it adds character. Feels too cheery otherwise. Like a parody of itself,” Sherlock explained.

“So what about you? Got a girlfriend?” John asked, forcing himself to sound nonchalant.

“Not really my area. You know that.”

“Boyfriend? Which would be fine with me by the way,”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock said softly, “We’ve had this conversation before, remember. I’m married to my work again. I always have been. There was always only one exception.”

“Right well, no sense reliving the past,” John put the star at the top of the tree, “How does that look?”

“Fine John, just fine,”

“Where did you celebrate Christmas that year?”

“The missing year. Ah of course. Bar in Germany.”

“Charming,”

“Quite the opposite actually. Lots of drunkards. I was hunting down the last of Moriarty’s men.”

“It was a big web wasn’t it, that bastard,”

“I don’t have the heart to hate him John. He did drive us apart. But he was the one who brought us together. That first case. The cab driver. His doing.”

“Haven’t thought about it that way,”

“Still, on balance, I’m glad he shot himself in the head,”

“Me too, Sherlock, I’m glad we agree on that.” John stepped back and looked at their handiwork, “In the old days I would have taken a picture of this. Written up a blog post.”

“But like you said,” Sherlock sighed, “No sense in reliving the past,”

***

“So after all these years you learned how to cook,” John said after dinner, “I’m actually shocked.”

“It’s just chemistry,” Sherlock replied, “Simple enough.”

“You just have to make sure there aren’t any body parts where you keep the food right Sherlock?” Artemis laughed.

“Yes, that is a pre-requisite,” he walked up to the fireplace to see the picture of Athena and John on the mantelpiece, “When was this taken?”

“It’s our Mount Rushmore trip, so eight years ago,” John answered, coming to stand next to him and looking at the picture closer, “Yeah, I think so,”

Athena smiled, “Dad look where you’re standing,”

“By the fireplace,” John said, confused, “I don’t get it. Why does it matter?”

“Mistletoe,” Artemis pointed out from the sofa.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Artemis, please,”

“Rules are rules, Sherlock,” Artemis crossed her arms, “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“We will not be manipulated in this inane fa—“ Sherlock began but was taken by surprise as John grabbed him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Dad, that’s such a cop-out,” Athena groaned.

“Sorry, girls” John walked back into the kitchen, “Nice try though,”

Sherlock was still standing there, rather awkwardly. But got back to his senses a few seconds later and then walked over wordlessly to sit by Artemis. He had been brought back to the memory of his last Christmas at home, when John had given him a real kiss under the mistletoe. Brought back to the comfort of the past. A past he had tried desperately to put behind him but couldn’t. A past in which John Watson had still loved him.

***

It was 3 am when John came down to the living room only to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, drinking some tea, watching the television on mute.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock answered shortly, “Obviously.”

“Don’t like the décor of the guest bedroom?” John offered.

“No it’s fine, I’m sure Mary likes it,”

“She’s never stayed over here before,”

“Ah, well, one day she will. Do forgive me if I don’t come to the wedding.”

“Yeah, that’d be kind of awkward. The famous ex shows up at last. All the people on the force will be shocked. ‘John you’re gay! Since when?’. People will talk,”

“You haven’t told them about me,” Sherlock nodded, “Understandable,”

“We agreed no contact, if I told them I would have had to tell Athena, she’d have found you,”

“They really think you aren’t gay?”

“I’m not gay, Sherlock,”

“Right I think we’ve discussed this before. Your sexual orientation is all women and your mad flatmate named Sherlock Holmes. Oddly specific, but okay,”

“Change the channel,” John said, “This show’s boring,”

“Again, with taking my lines,”

“Boring is not a word reserved for you, pretentious prat,”

“Right,” Sherlock changed the channel, “There’s a TV in that guest bedroom you put me up in, want to watch there?”

“Why not?” John sighed, “I’m not feeling sleepy any time soon, at least we can be comfortable,”

***

It had been years since John had slept with Sherlock Holmes. Well years since he had _slept slept_ with him. But also years since he had just regularly slept with him too. He hadn’t been planning on it. Really. They were just going to finish the film and he was going to go back to the bedroom across the hall. But he was so tired. And it had been such a long day. Just five more minutes he thought, then he would get up and walk across the hall. But he was asleep in four.

“Good morning John,” Sherlock pushed his ex-husband off of his chest, “Well this is a bit awkward isn’t it,”

“We didn’t—“ John said groggily.

“Have sex, no we didn’t,” Sherlock sat up.

“Oh no,” John said, “The girls are probably already up. They’re going to think…”

“Don’t worry John, I’ll go first, you come in fifteen minutes or so, they won’t suspect a thing,” Sherlock opened the door a crack only to see a dark head poke out of the room Athena was sharing with Artemis, “Damn.”

“So despite your poor showing last night at the fireplace, you two seem to have _rekindled_ since, Sherlock,” Artemis said smugly.

“Artemis I’m disappointed in you, that’s not even a good pun,” Sherlock said defensively, “John you can come out now, damage has been done,”

Athena snickered, “Dad you can come out now,”

“I’d just like to say right now,” John said flatly, “Nothing happened. We were just watching some TV…”

But the girls had already run downstairs to open their presents, leaving their rather frustrated parents hanging.

“Have children, you said, they’ll fill our lives with joy and wonder,” Sherlock said mockingly, “Great idea, John,”

“Hey they get the insufferable parts from the Holmes side,” John pointed out, “Your fault,”

“Isn’t it always?”


	10. Christmas Day

As they sat in the downstairs living room, oddly domestic, watching their teenage daughters open presents, John found himself realizing this was the life he had denied himself all along. No, he thought. This was the life he had wanted. Sherlock had made that impossible.

The doorbell rang all of a sudden and John watched as Sherlock got up to open the door. John’s heart skipped a beat as he saw a slim woman with short blonde hair waving at him through the screen door. Mary. Of course. On this of all days.

“Hi,” John dashed to the door before Sherlock had a chance to speak and kissed her on the cheek as she came in, “Pleasant surprise. Thought you were out of town.”

“I cancelled plans,” she laughed, “Just had to spend Christmas with you. Who is this?” she looked towards Sherlock.

“His ex-“

“-terminator. He’s my exterminator. Terrible. Um. Cricket infestation. Sort of an emergency.” John cut him off.

“I see,” Mary looked from Sherlock to Athena and Artemis, who were staring intently from the living room, “He does bear a striking resemblance to…John I swear you didn’t tell me they were twins.”

“Oh yeah,” John laughed, “Funny story. He’s my ex-wife’s brother. I can’t stand her anymore but he was nice enough to come down for the cricket problem. And he brought Artemis here. She usually lives with my ex-wife-“

“Shirley,” Sherlock finished, “Artemis usually lives in London with his ex-wife Shirley. She’s a brilliant private detective. Something of a genius. I was a bit surprised when she settled down with John but to each her own I suppose. I’m more of a common man myself. Exterminating vermin and such.”

“Wow,” Mary laughed uneasily, “That’s quite a story. Say, John, can I hang up my jacket? It was freezing outside but now I’m burning up.”

“Oh I’ll take it,” Sherlock took her coat and scarf, “After all. You two must have lots to talk about.”

Once he was out of earshot Mary hissed, “John you never told me about your ex-wife _Shirley_ before.”

“Never came up. Bit of a sore subject to be honest. Not really an amicable split.”

“Amicable or not. You didn’t tell me you had _another_ daughter.”

“Well, funny thing. Athena didn’t know she had a sister either. They sort of met by accident.”

“And now Shirley’s brother the exterminator is staying with you.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Okay,” Mary said finally, “Okay, John. I can see this might have been a bad time. If you want I can just—“

“No stay,” Sherlock came back and extended his hand, “Mycroft Holmes.”

John had to turn around to laugh in spite of his annoyance with Sherlock. Shirley and Mycroft Holmes. Of course.

“Nice to meet you,” Mary shook his hand, “It seems like we’ll be spending Christmas together. Is Shirley spending it in London?”

“Oh yes. America and the holidays in general tend to bore her. Really tacky.”

“Is she a character your sister?” Mary grinned, “Not liking Christmas.”

“Oh if you’re ever wondering about her don’t look any further than me. We’re frighteningly similar.”

John rolled his eyes.

***

“Mycroft your wife must be a lucky woman, this dinner is amazing,” Mary exclaimed.

“Oh no I’m gay, but thank you, my husband would certainly be a lucky man,” Sherlock smiled.

“Well don’t be too hasty Mary, you don’t know what he’s like to live with just yet, his husband would have to deal with quite a bit of interesting and _unapologetic_ behavior.” John said.

“Yes well, it’s like when you were living with my sister. What was that you said once? Yes. ‘Hellish to live with but more than makes up for it in bed’.”

“ _Mycroft_ we’re eating. And there’s children,” John hissed.

“Right sorry, wouldn’t want them to know how they originated.”

“So, Mycroft, how’s the business?” Mary asked.

“Exterminating has never been more profitable.”

“Yes, he has a morbid fascination with dead things,” John laughed, “With death in general actually.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sherlock replied, “I like a good puzzle. A challenge. Something with which to let off steam. Cast of the lethargy of daily life. The simple routine. Day after day after day. The inescapable normality.”

“Maybe some people like it when things are normal,” John said quietly.

“Maybe they claim to like it when they _crave_ something else. Just out of their reach.” Sherlock retorted.

“Maybe they fell off the edge once and don’t want to do it again.”

“Maybe they’ve been scared too long.”

Mary looked at both curiously, “Were you two close when you were married to Shirley, John?”

“Yeah,” John said, “I met her through him. We shared a flat. He was my best friend.”

“Did Shirley ever get remarried, Mycroft?” Mary asked Sherlock.

“No,” Sherlock got up and pushed in his chair, “She only had eyes for John. If you’ll excuse me. I think I’ll turn in early. Night all.”


	11. Ice Skating

Sherlock hadn’t expected to feel upset when John and Mary ended up sharing a bedroom. After all, _he_ wasn’t married to John anymore. He had no right to feel at all possessive. But it bothered him. It did. He hated himself for it.

And this ridiculous business, being Mycroft for the evening. He was only doing it as a favor to John, a little gesture of goodwill, and maybe then he would be forgiven. But if he was forgiven, what then. John already had Mary, what was he? An ex-best-friend. And a cricket killer.

As he tried to fall asleep he fingered his old wedding ring. He still kept it with him. Sentiment. Inside his head he went over the notes of his greatest composition. _To The One I Love Most_ Even his lullabies to Artemis and Athena did not surpass it. He had never played it since the fall. He couldn’t. But he still had it memorized. Such a waste of space really in his beautiful mind palace. He could easily delete it. Make room for more important things. The solar system, for instance. But the room called simple ‘John’ had been overstuffed for years. So many, many facts. Useless now. Technically. He could easily delete them. But Sherlock would never do it.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” Artemis crept into the room.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” he said a bit indignantly.

“Well,” Artemis climbed into the bed and sat next to him, “He was awful today. He could have told her the truth.”

“Why bother? I’m not going to be a part of their lives anyway. Not telling her is logical,” Sherlock said plainly.

“I’m sorry I brought us here,” Artemis said softly.

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t want you to think, Sherlock, that I’m any happier here than I was with you. You may have made a mistake, when you faked your death. But you were a great father, Sherlock.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Brendan then? Why wait for me to deduce it?”

“I didn’t want you to think. That the reason he did that. Was because I’m like you. Because I _am_ like you.”

“I was never this kind.”

“Your head is moving slightly left to right and you’re tapping out a melody. I recognize the song.”

“How can you? You’ve never heard it.”

“I found the sheet music you hid one day. Called ‘To The One I Love Most’. It’s your best piece.”

“You learned it?”

“Of course. Why don’t you ever play it?” she grabbed his violin from the suitcase.

“Obvious. The absence of the person referred to by the title. You can’t just play a piece like that, Artemis. You have to play it to the person you love most.”

“I am,” Artemis’ fingers curled over the bow and the violin began to sing.

It was beautiful to watch. Her white hands and the dark wood. The lilting melody. Going on and on. Speaking of longing. Yearning. Then a climax into forte. Deliverance. Success. Then the sounds fading briefly into piano as the second movement began.

In the bedroom across the hall, John had just gone to bed when he was startled by the sound. He was suddenly brought back to the diner all those years ago. What had possessed Sherlock to play this of all pieces? Their piece.

He saw Mary’s sleeping form beside him as he lay down, but saw Sherlock’s fingers on the violin as he closed his eyes.

***

“You two sleep well?” Sherlock asked Mary as he poured her some coffee.

“Oh I did fine,” Mary smiled as she stirred in some sugar, “John was tossing and turning all night. Woke up to tell me the strangest thing. ‘Sherlock’s gone. He fell.’ Got any idea what that means?”

“None at all,” Sherlock said quietly as he saw John come in, “Morning,”

“Right, Sh-Mycroft, um. Why were you playing the violin last night?” John asked.

“That was me,” Artemis said from the corner, “It’s a shame you didn’t hear it Mary. Those sleeping pills would have put you right out.”

“She’s doing the thing isn’t she?” Mary laughed uncomfortably, “It’s so interesting how they both can do that.”

“Get it from their mother,” Sherlock said.

“Like Mary gets the kleptomaniac tendencies from her mother’s side,” Athena offered.

“Girls that’s quite enough,” John attempted to smooth over the conversation.

“No, it’s alright,” Mary smiled, “I’m sure they’re just a bit uncomfortable having me around. Children of divorced parents can sometimes have trouble adjusting when one parent finds a new partner. I teach eighth grade. Believe me I know.”

“Didn’t always teach eighth grade though,” Artemis said a bit snidely, “Did you Mary?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,”

“Oh no Arty the brief stint in Atlantic City was nothing compared to the year. At least a year, I should think in Europe. Monte Carlo?” Athena asked.

“How could you possibly know? About that.” Mary snapped, “Little devils. Did you research me?”

“I think we’re done for today,” Sherlock clamped a hand over Artemis’ mouth, “Girls can I see you in the living room?”

“Father?”

“Sherlock?” they asked innocently as he looked at them sternly.

“It’s none of our business that she worked as a _performance artist_ in her early twenties. How could you do that to John? He-he loves her.”

“No he loves you,” Athena hissed.

“No he doesn’t. And you listen to me. If you care for him at all no matter what kind of woman she is, if she makes him happy you have to support him.”

“If he doesn’t love you why does he have the ring?” Athena demanded.

“What?”

“The ring. The wedding ring. He keeps it with him in his wallet. Takes it out sometimes. Strokes it. I’ve seen him do it.”

“Sentimental weakness. Nothing more,” Sherlock brushed it off, “Now go back in there and apologize to Mary.”

“But-“

“Thank you for your input,” he pointed a finger to the kitchen, and they trudged back in there warily. 

 ***

After an awkward brunch they decided to go ice skating. Mary’s favorite winter activity. Sherlock watched as John and Mary made figure eights hand in hand on the frozen lake. As he himself navigated over a patch of thin ice and grabbed a tree branch to steady himself.

But just his luck, he felt the ice crack under his weight and he fell into the icy water underneath.

“John!” he called out of instinct, it was his own personal word for help, for so many things.

“Sherlock—“ John turned to see him sink beneath the water and relived so many nightmares of the fall.

Darting over to the other side of the pond John thrust his own hands into the freezing water and pulled hard to get Sherlock out. Reliving a moment he had never wanted to think about again he felt for a pulse in Sherlock’s wrist and whacked him on the back to get out water. Hoping and praying that the man was okay.

He ripped off Sherlock’s soaking wet coat and scarf as Sherlock started breathing normally again and laughed weakly, “You ripping my clothes off. People might talk.”

“They do little else,” John took off his own coat and put it on him, “Oh Sherlock you frightened me for a second there.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said simply.

John was sure it was to him but he turned to see Mary standing behind them, “This is Sherlock, you bastard. _This_ is Sherlock. You’re fucking gay. You freak.”

“Bisexual actually, I’m gay,” Sherlock said weakly from the ground.

“No you’re gay and you led me on. And you lied to me. Is that what you two do? Lie to perfectly good people. Is that why you didn’t seem so pleased to see me? Were you planning on spending your Christmas shagging _him_? That’s disgusting. Well now you can.” She stalked off, “Goodbye John.”

“That didn’t go so well. I guess I deserved it,” John sighed, “Let’s go home, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry,”

“It’s not your fault. I lied to her, you were only trying to help,”

“John?” Sherlock said as he was helped to his feet, “How do you feel?”

“Cold, really fucking cold.”

“No, I mean. Did you really-“

“Love her? No. I try not to do that nowadays. Hurts too much to lose.”

“How often do you dream about the-“

“The fall? Used to be daily. Then weekly. Now monthly. If I’m lucky.”

“For a second there I was afraid you wouldn’t come pull me out.”

“That’s ridiculous, Sherlock. I shot a man to save you the first day we met. You really think I’m going to let hypothermia do the honors?”

“Frostbite then? More painful.”

“Shut up, and some stuff fell out of your coat as I took it off is this—“ John fingered the ring, “You keep it with you, sentiment. After all this time?”

Sherlock reached into the pocket of the coat he was wearing, John’s coat, and took out the other ring, “You’re one to talk. So do you.”


	12. The One Where Sherlock Gets Sick

“I forgot what a terrible patient you were,” John said as he took Sherlock’s temperature, “Stop fidgeting. 102. I feel terrible. If I hadn’t dragged you ice skating with us.”

“S’not your fault John,” Sherlock said extremely groggily, resting his head back on the pillow.

John had done as much as he could to minimize the damage. He had covered Sherlock in all the fabric he could before taking him home, stripping off the wet things, putting him in John’s pajamas, and setting him under all the blankets he could salvage from the around the house in the guest bedroom. But despite all this care, the man still had a fever. John sighed. He hadn’t taken care of a sick Sherlock in years. But if memory served. This was going to be a trial.

“Is he going to be alright dad?” Artemis asked.

“He’ll be fine,” John said gently, “You guys don’t have to keep vigil. You can hangout downstairs if you want.”

John smiled as Artemis squeezed her father’s warm hand, “Get better Sherlock,”

Athena on the other hand kissed his hair, “Get some rest,”

“They’re good girls,” John commented when they had gone, “We did well,”

“They’re part Watson, of course they’re good,” Sherlock said, his voice weak, “John I’m _so_ hot,”

John walked into the bathroom and fetched a towel and wet it under the sink until it was nice and cold, then he came back and sat next to where Sherlock was sleeping in the bed.

“This might help, if you stay still and let me do it,”

“John please, I’m burning,” Sherlock whined.

For whatever reason, John felt the slightest bit uncomfortable taking off Sherlock’s shirt. He knew in his mind that he shouldn’t. After all he had done it a thousand times in contexts that were now making him blush. This was ridiculous, he thought to himself. He had married this man. He should be fine seeing him shirtless.

Sherlock for his part seemed to concur with the rational voice in John’s mind, “For god’s sake, you’ve seen me completely naked, John,”

“Yeah thanks for that image right now, totally making this less awkward,”

“Sorry it’s just a bit stupid for man who gave me hand jobs in the shower dither over seeing my exposed nipples for purely medical reasons,”

“I won’t do this if you’re snarky,” John said as he gingerly undid the last button.

“Snark is part of my package,” Sherlock said, and was about to say something else as John wiped his chest and face down with the towel.

“John I might fall asleep, is that alright? Could you keep doing this?”

“If it’s making you feel better,” John ran the towel down Sherlock’s arms, rolling up his sleeves, his forehead and his legs. Then repeated his chest, “Try to fall asleep,”

“Talk to me,” Sherlock said, a tad deliriously, “I’ve missed the sound of your voice,”

“What should I talk about?”

“Anything,”

So John did. About the first thing that popped into his mind. And then all the random connections to it. Sherlock offered general witty commentary for the first few minutes, but then stopped responding and John realized he had fallen fast asleep. He should go now, he thought, rebutton the shirt, pull the covers up and let him rest. But what if Sherlock woke up and needed something? So John climbed into bed next to him and pulled the covers up over them both. Sherlock’s fevered warmth radiated into the sheets. And John reached out to feel his hot, scorching forehead, coming closer instinctively to kiss it in the way Athena had.

As they lay side by side John thought a lot about the past. When the girls had been little Sherlock had never been sick. John had the one time. He remembered it rather clearly. Sherlock was never the one to brood and obsess over John. He wasn’t the clingy sort of romantic. Or the mother hen. But John had the vague memory of being carried by Sherlock from the sofa to the bedroom. Of Sherlock feeding him warm soup spoonful by spoonful. Of Sherlock sleeping in a chair by the bed, so as not to catch whatever John had but to be there every time he woke up. Of Sherlock’s cool hands everywhere on him, of Sherlock’s icy blue eyes calming the raging heat of the fever. When John had asked why Sherlock was so surprisingly good at taking care of him the man had laughed “in sickness and in health, remember?” and John had realized just then one more time just how much his husband loved him. Recalling it now he realized just how much he had lost.

Sherlock woke up only once that night, coughing and claiming his throat was parched, and looking honestly surprised to see John there, “You stayed?”

But John said nothing as he went downstairs and brought the water. As he coaxed Sherlock into sitting up and brought the glass to his face he only smiled, “In sickness and in health,”

In the morning John fed Sherlock mouthfuls of breakfast with his own two hands, recalling that warm soup of so many years ago. Artemis and Athena had come in and watched silently, but John didn’t care anymore if they saw, he wasn’t getting back together with Sherlock by any means, but he did care for the man, that much was certain. Any other meanings they chose to take from this was their prerogative.

“Be careful, they’ll think you still love me,”

“I still did, even after I knew we had no future together anymore. I never stopped,”   


	13. The Memory Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John keeps a lot of things hidden away. Including how he felt, and how he feels, about Sherlock.

“Do you still?” Sherlock asked, coughing up a bit of his pancake.

“Not in the same way,” John reached up to wipe off his mouth with a napkin, “Everything changed after…, you know it did,”

***

In the evening when John was satisfied that Sherlock’s temperature was indeed back to normal he decided he would take the girls with him to the station, as some unexpected evidence had turned up on the drugs case. Sherlock had protested quite strongly for a man so recently sick, yet John had put his foot down. He was not about to allow him to hang around a freezing cold station. Besides, it was a simple drug dealing case, nothing that would catch his eye as particularly abnormal.

So Sherlock had relented, sulking on the sofa for a bit after they left, huffing about boredom. What could he do to pass the time? He remembered John’s habit of solving a rubik’s cube whenever he was bored. Sherlock of course had never tried his hand at it. Perhaps he could teach himself how to solve one and beat John’s record time all in one evening. He went up the stairs to John’s bedroom, knowing for sure that it would be on the bedside table. John had always kept it there when they were married. And John did not like change.

Sure enough when Sherlock entered the room he found the cube sitting right where he expected it to be. Completely solved. John had done it last night. Right after he had eaten some Cheetoes, Sherlock deduced idly.

But as he looked around the room something else caught his eye, a box in the closet marked _Past,_ and though Sherlock knew it was wrong, that this was John’s house, and John’s stuff, he couldn’t help but go in and look at it. And after he looked at it he just had to take a peek inside. Guessing the lock combination was child’s play. John would never know. John was at the police station. He was just bored. Just curious.

He wasn’t prepared for the shock that went through his chest as he saw the first thing stacked in the box, the thing he was sure was pulled out most often and looked at. He turned the photo album in his hands a few time. John looked at this at least once a week. The wedding album. _Their_ wedding album.

Sherlock had always wondered what happened to it. The settlement after the divorce had split cleanly most of Sherlock’s things to him, and John’s things to John. The Sherlock-and-John’s things had been harder to partition, so Sherlock had just let John pick. He had always assumed that had John picked this album it would have landed in the dustbin. Or gathering dust somewhere in storage. But no. It was here. Its pages well-turned. A drop of coffee on the opening page.

Sherlock stared at every page. Pictures of them saying their vows. Kissing at the head of the chapel. Pictures of them with Mrs. Hudson. Pictures of them with Lestrade. Pictures of them smiling. Pictures of them dancing. Being happy. Being _together_. Seeing it hurt more than anything. Knowing that this was supposed to have been forever.

And there was so much more in there. At the bottom of the box, the pink phone from their very first case. The cigarettes John had hid. A portion of the mangled _Cluedo_ board. The marriage license, Sherlock traced the word ‘Holmes-Watson’ ruefully.

Then there was something he didn’t remember seeing. Letters. Letters in John’s handwriting. He picked up the first one, observing the date, a few months after the fall.

_I dunno why I’m writing this. You’re dead after all. I might just be going mad. I thought it was hard with twins with the two of us but with just me it’s honestly impossible. Mrs. Hudson and Molly can only help so much, their our daughters after all, I want them to remember me in their childhood, and I want them to remember you. I tell them all about you. It’s probably stupid really. Their just babies, they can’t even understand what I’m saying. I just can’t stand them growing up and not knowing how amazing, how brilliant you were. I tell them about the cases. I thought you’d like that. I’m probably romanticizing way too much. But then again, I’m a romantic. I’m so much of a romantic sometimes—you won’t believe this—but I dream sometimes that you came back. Or that you never died. And I hate, I hate waking up, Sherlock._

_\--John H. Watson-Holmes_

_I wasn’t going to do this again. I don’t personally think it’s particularly healthy. But the new therapist says it is though. Apparently I’m better at expressing my emotions this way than in talking to people about it. So there you go. I never really benefited from therapy the first time around. Falling in love with you was a lot more effective. But seeing as you’re not around. I guess I should be moving on. Artemis has trouble falling asleep. Rather like me, I guess. So I’ve taken to playing back some of the recordings I made of you on the violin. Works like a charm. Both of them are crawling terrors now. Nothing in the house is safe. I’m almost glad there are no experiments lying around. But then I remember the reason why. God, Sherlock. For fuck’s sake. I can’t continue._

_\--John H. Watson-Holmes_

_It’s been a month or two. I held a little birthday party. They’re one year old today. Our daughters, Sherlock. Don’t worry, I told them about you. And I was thinking the past few weeks why I even bother. Because I’m breaking up inside everyday and they’ve given me a reason. Both of their parents can’t leave them. They deserve better than that. And I have to live so that I can tell them about you. So I will._

_\--John H. Watson-Holmes_

_You’re back. You’re just back. Just like that. Like it was some sort of game. A part of me just wants to let you in again. And it would be easy. It would be easy to just let you in again. It would be awkward at first. But we would get over it in a few more months, or maybe in a year or two. The harder thing is letting you go. I can’t trust you anymore. I love you more than life but I don’t trust you not to break me again. I’m never going to love another person like I’ve loved you in this lifetime. In fact every day you’re gone I’ll see your face. I’ll hear your voice. But I can’t give in to what I want and ignore what’s right. There’s been too much pain. I can’t let that happen again. Not to the girls. Not to me. I’m just sorry. It was only ever you. It always will be._

_\--John H. Watson- ~~Holmes~~_

Sherlock re-read the last letter over and over again. Feeling physically cut open every time he saw the strikethrough of his own name.

“Enjoying yourself there Sherlock?” John said from the closet door.

Sherlock stood up quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“You had no right,” John said angrily, “To just barge in here and look through my things,”

“I know, I’m sor—“

“You think sorry’s going to cut it, that’s your problem you know that. You screw up and you just come back to me and apologize every bloody time! And I took it. I took it for years. Because idiot that I am, I did love you. But there are limits, there really are,” John shouted.

“I was bored, I was looking for the rubik’s cube originally, I—“

“Right you were bored, and looking through my _Sherlock_ box must have been pretty amusing to you, eh? All the crap I’ve kept after all this time, all my let—you read the letters didn’t you? You bloody read the letters! How many did you read? Did you get to the last one? The bottom one?” John snapped.

“Only a passing glance, and I didn’t even pick up the last one,” Sherlock said defensively, “Stop getting so worked up, I kept things too,”

“Oh I shouldn’t be getting worked up?”

“Yeah, you’re not as young as you used to be, it’ll upset your—blood pressure…”

“SINCE WHEN DO YOU WORRY ABOUT MY BLOOD PRESSURE, YOU HAVEN’T BEEN HERE FOR SIXTEEN YEARS!”

“YOU WANTED A DIVORCE!”

“YOU FAKED YOUR OWN DEATH!”

“NOT THIS AGAIN, FOR GOD’S SAKE…”

“Sherlock?” Artemis popped in, her sister close behind, “Why are you yelling at dad?”

John and Sherlock looked  guiltily at each other as the girls crossed their arms.

“Right, who started it?” Athena asked.

“John,”

“Sherlock,”

They both replied quickly.

Artemis sighed, “Dad, Sherlock’s been indoors too long, we can bundle him up, take him for a movie or something, you know how he gets when he’s bored, it was bound to happen,”

John laughed, “I know, believe me I do, there was this one time when he took the jam and he—“

“That’s enough of that story,” Sherlock said quickly.

“I’ll tell you in the car,” John whispered to Artemis, “I don’t care if he kills me,”

Once they were gone Athena took a moment to look at the box herself. Out of all her years of living here she had never dared try and open the _Past_ box. But now that it lay open before her she saw the letters that her dad had yelled at Sherlock about. There were two piles she observed. The letters Sherlock had read, and one he hadn’t got to.

She picked up the last one and her eyes widened as she read it.

_I’m falling in love with you all over again. I guess it’s long past time hoping you might feel the same way. We fit together so easily. Like a proper family. I don’t know why I’m writing another one of these. First one in years. It’s just that now you’re back in my life I find myself falling into old habits. Waking up next to you felt more right than wrong. I can’t hold back the urge sometimes to just grab your hand like I used to, and that’s why I put both of mine in my pockets. Who knows though? Maybe it’s just the nostalgia talking? Though since you’re never going to read this I have a confession. We’ve been divorced longer than we were married, but I still start to write out ‘Watson-Holmes’. Every. Damn. Time. It’s pretty pathetic actually. God help me._

_\--John H. Watson-Holmes (you know what, just this once, fuck it)_


	14. The Movie Theater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock see a romantic film.

“You know I think I think the girls planned on seeing a popular film so that the four of us couldn’t sit all together,” John remarked as the previews began.

“Oh undoubtedly, they want us to get back together,” Sherlock conceded.

“Don’t eat so much popcorn before the actual film begins or there won’t be any left,” John chided.

“We’re not married anymore, I can eat what I want,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock even when we were married you didn’t listen to me,” John pointed out.

“Hmmm, you’re right, I guess I can just sip my drink. American products are always so grotesquely big. This is a small?”

“You get used to it after a while, I was appalled the first time, Athena grew up American though, so she hardly notices,”

“Sssh, it’s starting,”

“I know it’s starting, don’t tell me to shush!”

“Well if you knew why were you still talking, it’s disrespectful to the other theatre-goers who’ve paid way too much money to see this—wait what are we seeing again? It sounded dull”

“I let the girls choose the film,”

Sherlock smiled, “Then it’s a romance,”

“Oh they are sly. They probably think seeing this couple get together on screen will make us _rekindle_ the magic of the old days,”

“Yes, essentially, we’ll see a parallel to our own relationship, realize we were meant to be, then go gallivanting into the sunset,”

John laughed, “Yes, we’ll be holding hands, beams of sunlight will shine down from the heavens, some lovey-dovey song will play in the background,”

“That’s exactly how I remember our honeymoon too John,”

“Shut up, it was great and you know it,”

“What was the record? Three times in a night?”

“Four,” John said smugly, “Something about the Spanish landscape really brings out the best in me,”

Sherlock leaned closer to John so that he might whisper to him as the first scene began, “Now the real question is, in the film, which of us gets to be the dashing male lead?”

“We are not arguing this again. I am not the woman in this relationship. That’s the point of marrying a man. There is no wife involved,” John hissed.

“No but just for the sake of the cinematic parallel,” Sherlock insisted.

“You can be the woman, you’d look better in that dress,” John reasoned, “And the bloke’s a soldier, I’m him,”

“Damn,” Sherlock sighed, “This woman better not be hopelessly boring,”

They were quiet for a few minutes, Sherlock analyzing the continuity errors in the film, while John was just getting into the plot. Every few seconds they reached to get popcorn from the box Sherlock was holding in between them, carefully timing so their hands wouldn’t brush. But just as John was wondering what the dark-haired woman who was supposedly analogous to Sherlock would do when she found out the dashing male lead was to be redeployed, he lost track and felt Sherlock’s cold fingers and immediately retracted his hand.

“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“Nothing it’s just—“ John blushed, “It’s ridiculous I know,”

“It makes you tense, it makes you nervous, you used to be so used to me, and now I’m right here but you’re not, and that’s weird for you, that makes sense,” Sherlock rattled off the deduction.

“Something like that,”

“Hold my hand then, it’ll break the tension,”

“Sherlock, do you actually hear the words that leave your mouth?”

“Of course, it’s a perfectly reasonable solution to your problem, once you’ve done it you’ll be fine,”

“No, Sherlock, normal people don’t just do that,”

“We’re not normal, never were,” Sherlock continued looking straight at the screen, then put the popcorn box down and extended his hand in John’s direction, “Try it out,”

John took it. Sherlock was so wrong. This hadn’t made his problem better, but exponentially worse. The feeling of Sherlock’s hand was a temporarily relief. But now he wanted more. He didn’t just want to grasp Sherlock’s hand, he wanted to sit in his lap. He wanted to throw his arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth. He wanted to breathe him in, feel every inch of his skin, be enveloped by him. It was maddening. It was so, so maddening.

“Better?” Sherlock drew his hand back.

“Yeah, that did it,”

“I’m glad,”

As John clasped his own hands together he couldn’t help glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. It was just like the times before they had actually gotten together. When each had been dancing around their obvious feelings. Only this time, John was apparently the only one dancing. He was suddenly seized with the urge to take Sherlock to the back of the theatre and snog him. God he was thinking like a horny teenager. But it was so hard. Because before when John had wanted Sherlock he hadn’t known exactly what he was wanting after. Now on the other hand, having already fulfilled all of his Sherlock-related fantasies at an earlier time in life, he knew exactly how infuriatingly hot the thing he could never have was.

So as it turned out, Sherlock watched the film, and John watched Sherlock. Why couldn’t he have aged badly? He still had all of that hair. Still perfectly lean. Only a few greys. John on the other hand had tons of greys. Had gained a little weight.  Sherlock probably wouldn’t even want him, lust after him like he once had. But John wanted. Oh god, John wanted it so much it scared him.

“You’ve been staring for quite a while,” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

John swore mentally, “Film is boring,”

“That’s my line,”

“Sod your line,”

“Why is it boring?”

“If I wanted to pay money to watch actors snog I could do that at home and have a lot more fun,”

“Ah, so you’re sexually frustrated,”

“Can you not say things like that in public?” John implored.

“Right sorry, so what were you thinking about, when you were looking at me, if it wasn’t sex-related?”

“You don’t have that many grey hairs,”

“So?” Sherlock shrugged.

“You’ve aged better than I have,”

“Are you digging for a compliment?”

“No, no,” John retorted, “I’m just saying,”

“Granted you’re not Brad Pitt sort of handsome anymore, but the grey sort of channels that Clooney fellow?”

“How the hell do you know either of those people?”

“I’m a gay divorced man raising a teenage daughter,”

“Was that a roundabout way of saying you think I’m still handsome?”

“You shouldn’t take my word for it,” Sherlock sipped his drink, “My type is technically short stocky men who wear cuddly jumpers and could take you out with a single bullet,”

“Ah, end scene at the airport, never could have guessed,” Sherlock continued, “She’s completely besotted, look at the way she’s running to him,”

“That was you when I returned from the conference in Vienna,”

“I did not run into your open arms, nor did you pick me up and twirl me,”

“You totally did, and I did the second part when we got home, my back hurt for a week,” John smirked.

“And there’s the credits, finally,” Sherlock got up, “Shall we?”

“Right behind you, buttercup,” John picked up his coat.

Sherlock reddened, “I thought I told you that was strictly between us,”

“Yes, yes, my consulting clementine,”

“Now that one you just made up on the spot, or you’ve been holding on to it for a long time, I don’t know which is worse,”

“I’ll let you deduce it for yourself,” John laid a hand on Sherlock’s back and moved him along into the aisle.

Sherlock was sure now that something was up. John didn’t love him, that much he knew, but there was definitely something up with how preoccupied John was with him. The touching. The staring. The constant glances. Ah, Sherlock thought. He is sexually frustrated. All the signs are there. And Sherlock, an old paramour standing so close, yet out of reach. John was too kind to ask Sherlock for this. Too good even to acknowledge it. But what if Sherlock offered himself?

No, that was ridiculous. Yet Sherlock wanted to do it. To be with John in at least one of the ways they had been together before. John may not love him, but the raw physicality of the act might be enough to tide Sherlock over for a bit, to rid him of his compulsive need for John. But no, it was too risky. Too foolish. And especially with Artemis and Athena around, he couldn’t do something that irresponsible. He had to preserve some normalcy in their reformed ‘family’. Sleeping with John would just be another wild card. But he wanted it. He wanted John Watson so badly he thought he would break.

***

John never made a habit of drinking. He had seen alcohol destroy his sister Harry. He had seen it destroy her relationships to Clara, to him, to their parents. He could just never approve of it. Yet they had some in the cabinet for company, and John needed a drink. The case today had been exhausting, he explained to Sherlock. He deserved a little pick me up.  

He poured himself a glass of wine, then another. Until he felt drowsy enough to off to bed. He vaguely remembered offering some to Sherlock. Who may have had a glass or two to drink, while John went upstairs, the twins having already turned in. He was going to go to bed in his own bedroom. Despite the fact that every inch of his being yearned for the man sleeping just across the hall.

He wanted Sherlock so much he even dreamed of him. Dreamed of him coming to John right before he was about to turn off the bedside lamp, having solved the rubik’s cube in record slow times due to the alcohol in his system.

“I can’t take it anymore either, can we just do this?” Sherlock had asked.

Besides having replied, “Oh god yes,” John didn’t really remember any other discussion. The sensation of kissing Sherlock Holmes, which was strangely realistic, tended to overpower any and all other recollections. The last coherent thought John remembered having was the vague impression that maybe this wasn’t a dream, and god oh god, why did I have to hold his hand…

 


	15. Green Pepper Omelets and Buttered Toast

John really needed to stop waking up in Sherlock Holmes’ arms. But it was strangely peaceful just laying there watching Sherlock breathe, and even feeling it, both the rise and fall of his stomach, plastered against John’s, and the faint exhale of his breath against John’s neck. It had never been like this with Mary. After having sex they would always move to their own separate sides of the bed, maybe throw over a hand at most. Sherlock though, strangely enough given his aloofness and cool demeanor, was actually far warmer than Mary. John enjoyed the sex with Sherlock, there was no denying it, but he almost craved what came afterward. It was so easy to fall asleep when he could hear the thudding of Sherlock’s heart, an organ he had misjudged for so long before they had gotten together. It was so easy to intertwine their arms and legs and breathe in every facet of his being, strangely privileged in the fact that he was the only person ever to do so. The only person, ever, that Sherlock had allowed to come this close. And how very, very close this was.

It was a few hours past midnight now. Still dark outside. John thought about waking Sherlock. Of asking him to return to his own bedroom. But if this was really all that was left of their old love, he wanted to savor it, selfishly. After all, they had already come this far, the damage, if it would end up being damaging, was already done.

But when dawn came and the earliest rays of sunlight illuminated the room John woke up alone. Of course Sherlock had gone. He had gotten what he needed. They both had. He, John, should be happy. Yet he wasn’t. Some small part of him wished that it had meant more to Sherlock than just a release, more than just facilitating his ‘transport’. He considered briefly the likelihood that Artemis and Athena would deduce this. Balance of probability, yes, he thought, they would see it right away. Then he cringed, ‘balance of probability’ was Sherlock’s word.

Wasn’t everything he had technically Sherlock’s? His daughters, the most precious things in his world, also Sherlock’s. His job with the police department, motivated entirely as a sort of filler for the crimes he had solved with Sherlock. His mind. Alert and occupied with many things really, but with its own small subsection devoted entirely to his life with Sherlock. And of course his heart. That too, he realized, was all Sherlock’s.

John remembered last night as a sort of blur. At the movie theater he had craved Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock’s body. The ghost memories of what it felt like to kiss him. He had wanted it. Wanted it so much. Now though, he wanted something worse. He didn’t just want to sleep with Sherlock, the realization dawned on him. He wanted _him_. It wasn’t enough to have had sex with Sherlock again, though it was bloody brilliant. John wanted him to still be here. In the bed with him. He wanted to wake him up and see that first split second expression of confusion on his face, the one time Sherlock was ever disoriented, right when he became conscious and hit the sudden sensory/analytical overload.

He wanted to make sure he ate something for breakfast. Whether it was only a few nibbles of John’s omelet, which John made exactly to Sherlock’s liking, no onions and extra green peppers, just so that he would eat. Or a bite of John’s toast, which John generously buttered, because Sherlock liked ridiculously excess amounts of butter on toast. It was things like that John had learned to do when they were married. And John missed it.

He wanted to argue with Sherlock about leaving the faucet on and having the water run. He wanted to complain about the body parts in the bloody fridge. He wanted to fight with him about the best way to encourage a love of Vivaldi in four month olds. He wanted to smack him on the backside with a dishtowel when he got in the way while John was making tea.

Sherlock had been his entire world once. John remembered. John wanted to hold Sherlock again like he had when the man had admitted his reluctance to actually go to the sperm bank and make the donation was because he was afraid any children of his would inherit his weakness for cocaine. He wanted those late night chats, where they both looked up at the ceiling, and Sherlock gave him the rarest glimpse into his childhood—things John knew Sherlock had not, and would not tell anyone but him. He wanted Sherlock’s rare way of saying I love you, at the most random times, a word or phrase that meant those three words, but in a way so utterly Sherlockian that John thrived on it all the same.

“John you are the lighthouse in a storm.”

“John you are my anchor.”

“You’re not one of the dull ones.”

“But of course, the work is only secondary to you.”

_John, I love you. I love you. I love you._

John could hear it even now. Echoes from the distant past. The life that could have been. He looked a the place Sherlock had left in the sheets and was reminded by all those other times he had woken up alone. Robbed of his center. His universe. And he remembered the fight.

The things he had said to Sherlock when they decided to break it off.

“I can understand it was hard for you, losing me, your husband,” Sherlock had said after having apologized for the millionth time.

“I didn’t just lose my husband when you left Sherlock,” he had shouted, “I lost my best friend, my lover, my flatmate, and not to mention the father of our bloody children, my entire world. You were everything, Sherlock, everything.”

 _Everything_. The word floated in his head. Sherlock had been everything. He would have killed for him. He would have died for him. But he had lost all that. Sherlock had left. Sherlock was gone. Oh he was crazy. Crazy wanting. Wanting _him_. He had no business wanting him. He had told Sherlock they were over. So long. So long ago. Why would Sherlock come back? Why would he possibly come back? He had left right in the morning. He had made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything more than sex. Maybe that’s all he wanted. Made sense. Why would he want anything more than just a carnal release of—

“Bagel?” Sherlock stood in the doorway with a dressing gown, holding two, “Didn’t want to wake you. I was hungry. Quite a bit of exertion. Not as young as I used to be.”

“You left to get a _bagel_?” John said incredulously.

“Didn’t think I got scared and ran out on you did you?” Sherlock got back under the covers, “Made you an omelet too downstairs. Plus toast. You can eat it when you’re ready. No onions, extra green peppers. Buttered the bread a lot. Just the way you always liked it.”  


	16. He's My Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go out for coffee.

“We need to talk about this,” John said finally.

“Right,” Sherlock replied. 

“What are we doing, Sherlock? Is this right for us? Is this right for the girls? Or are we just chasing after the past?” he rubbed his temples.

“It’s too much too soon isn’t it?” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “That’s the only logical explanation,”

“Sorry what?” John sat up in bed.

“You just slept with me, woke up in bed with me, we’re falling back into the patterns we were in when we were married and it’s all happening a bit too quickly,”

“I dunno, maybe that’s it, but I _want_ to be with you again,” John said slowly.

“You free today?”

“Of course I am, what does that have to do with bloody anything, I just told you I want this and you’re—“

“Would you like to go out for coffee?”

“Coffee? You’re asking me out?” John looked at him in shock.

“Obviously,” Sherlock sat up, “I mean we never did have a proper courtship to begin with. If we’re doing this again. And you want it proven to you that we’re actually falling for each other and not just in love with nostalgia.”

“Wait where are you going?” John asked as Sherlock bounded off to the guest bedroom.

“Making dinner reservations for later, if the first date goes well of course, no pressure,”

John sighed.

***

“They totally did it last night,” Artemis laughed after breakfast.

“Art, has it ever struck you as odd that most teenagers would be disturbed to deduce that their parents had sex and yet we’re positively delighted?” Athena stroked her chin.

“I think our logic allows us to analyze it in a detached way,” Artemis said, “But I think it’s going to work, they’re going out for coffee today,”

“Aren’t they doing that backwards, sex then coffee then dinner?”

“Yes, but it’s them,” Artemis pointed out, “When have they ever done anything the normal way?”

***

“Nice weather today,” Sherlock commented dryly as he sipped his cappuccino.

“The weather’s atrocious, Sherlock what are you doing?” John laughed.

“I read an article on first date small talk,” Sherlock explained, “Not working?”

“No, not working, I’ll help you, let’s ask each other about our personal lives,”

“Oh alright, got any kids?” Sherlock asked.

“I have two. Twins actually,”

“Fascinating. So have I.”

“Um, let’s see, ever been married before?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“That’s it? Just a yes? What did you like most about him?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, “He was my friend.”

John gulped, “I’m actually from England. Though you can probably tell from the accent.”

“England? Never would have guessed.”

“Just throwing this out there now. I don’t really do flings. If we’re going to do this it should be a proper, serious relationship.”

Sherlock nodded, “I agree completely.”

“Sherlock I can’t take this anymore,”

“Take what?”

“Us, trying to be a normal couple, it’s hell, tell me about your cases, deduce someone in this café, let’s go solve a crime,”

“God I was thinking you’d never ask, so the woman in the corner there has been married three times and is now sleeping with her brother…”

***

“Sherlock what is this place?” John looked around at the empty room.

“Ballroom. I rented it out so we can dance, assuming the first date went well,” Sherlock said as the music came on.

“That’s the song that played at our wedding,” John recognized it.

“Will you lead or shall I?”

“You, always you,” John smiled.

***

“So this place, Italian, you’re calling Angelo’s to mind,” John said as they walked in.

Sherlock said nothing. 

"Name?" the waiter asked. 

"Watson-Holmes," John said quickly then coughed, "I mean Holmes  _and_ Watson" _  
_

“Table for two friends? Nothing too romantic?” the waiter laughed as he looked around, trying to find a place to seat them.

Sherlock glanced at John carefully, wondering what he would say to that.

But, John, dear John, knew exactly what to say, “Oh no, he’s my date,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in love with these two idiots being in love. I always am.


	17. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How John figured out Sherlock loved him. How Sherlock proposed to John. And how John proposed to Sherlock.

_Twenty three years earlier_

“Look I know it can be hard to lose someone you loved, but you have to let her go,” John said gently, reaching out cautiously to touch Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch, turned around at John’s touch, surprised, “I never loved Irene, John,”

John stepped around to sit by him on the sofa, “Then why are you so upset?”

“She reminded me of something,”

“What’s that?”

“Love is a dangerous disadvantage,” Sherlock’s voice was even.

“Oh,” John said, “Alright,”

And he had walked away. Not having understood what Sherlock meant. He had a date that evening anyway, so he’d wait till he came back to dissect that further. If Sherlock was still up of course, which he probably would be. Doing one mad experiment or another.

But it was only halfway through dinner with a woman he was becoming less interested in by the second that he came to the earth shattering realization of what Sherlock had meant. Irene had made him realize love was a dangerous disadvantage. That’s why he was so upset. He had fallen in love. But with who? How had John not noticed? He was with him night and day. He was devoted to Sherlock.

He had long since given up the thought that Sherlock would ever consider _him_ that way. Married to my work and all being considered. And the fact that Sherlock was brilliant. And he was well, not. It’s not you, a small voice in his head said. But the thought came to him that maybe it was. And if it was him. Then he had left the man after he had practically confessed. Left him all alone in that flat to ponder why John did not reciprocate. To analyze and deconstruct and obsess. To do every obsessively Sherlockian thing that would drive him mad.

John didn’t even wait for the bill. He didn’t even take his coat with him.

“Sherlock!” she shouted from the stairwell before coming into the room.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his hands steepled underneath his chin, “It took you fifty-seven minutes to get that,”

“I still don’t quite get it,” John panted, “Ran up here to find out,”

“Not Irene,” Sherlock said slowly.

It wasn’t an explanation. Not really. But John had always had a knack for reading into what Sherlock said.

“Someone else then,”

“Someone else,”

“Yes?” John waited.

“Oh for god’s sake Sherlock at least describe them,” he sighed.

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, “Above average intelligence, strong moral principle, crack shot, popular with women, sometimes very perceptive, sometimes not, sarcastic as hell, seems like an everyman but is far, far more, unhealthy addiction to adrenaline, nerves of steel,”  

John was taken aback, not only by the sudden realization that oh-my-god it was him, but by that description, “All those things That’s really how you see me. Most people would have gone for blonde haired, vaguely cuddly looking doctor,”

“I’m not most people,” Sherlock said simply, “And that would have been a very superficial analysis,”

“Really?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re _really_ in love with me. _You_. You’re brilliant, Sherlock. You’re a genius. I’m-I’m ordinary.”

“Shows how much you know,”

“You don’t think I’m ordinary,” John was shocked.

“Your worth has quickly become an entity that I find singularly difficult to quantify. If I told you I thought love to still be just a chemical reaction, I’d be lying. It may just be a matter of perspective. Perhaps you are ordinary in the eyes of the world. If they’re looking for a spectacle they don’t have to look much further than people like me. But not a single second passes that I don’t want to memorize your image and deduce from it every single fact it can possibly bear me. I loathe your frequent outings with pointless women not because it distracts you from the work because I want you here, with me, permanently. And I know it is a natural fact of life and the human life cycle that you will one day leave to find a partner, and to generate progeny and to live out your days as per the expectations of the world. But I dread that day. I dread it with a passion I have seldom had for anything else. So no. You’re not ordinary. Not to me, anyway.” the speech started off slow, and picked up speed as it went, and with every word Sherlock walked a step closer to John until they were standing right in front of each, finally locking eyes.

John didn’t have the words to respond to this particular speech. So he kissed Sherlock for the first time, hoping he would get the message. That he wasn’t planning on leaving. That he loved him too. That he was happy, so happy, that Sherlock thought he was extraordinary.

“What was that?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully when John let him go.

“Well you had your way of saying ‘I love you’, that was mine, a little less eloquent granted but—“

“I prefer your way,”

“I hoped you might say that,”

_Twenty-one years earlier_

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t John who proposed, even though he was the one who had traditional ideas of marriage and children more firmly ingrained. Also surprisingly, he didn’t really make a big deal either. No sudden revelation after nearly dying on a case. No fancy restaurant night. No post shagging ‘I must have all of you now’ emotions running all over the place. Just reading the newspaper in the living room.

“Pass me the obituaries, John,” Sherlock demanded, “And will you marry me?”

 John nearly choked on his tea, “Sherlock I think you want to separate those two requests,”

“I can walk into the kitchen and fetch the rest of the paper myself if you’ll marry me,” Sherlock agreed.

“Sherlock, have you thought about this? You can’t just randomly ask a person that.” John tried to explain.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked genuinely.

“Sherlock I was reading the newspaper in my pajamas a moment ago and now I’m comprehending the fact that my boyfriend wants to marry me,” John said, “There was no build up, you can’t just tell a person—“

“I’m not randomly asking a person. I’m asking the one person I care about most in the world if he’d like to formalize an arrangement that has made me extremely happy. However if you find the idea distasteful I shan’t bring it up again,”

Now John felt like a tit, “No I don’t think that,”

“That’s not what it sounded like,”

“Sherlock! I was having tea!”

“Well you have your tea, I’m not going to marry you, you needn’t have to worry,”

This is ridiculous, John thought, he’s a grown man and he’s sulking.

So John grabbed the newspaper from him, and got down on one knee.

“John what are you doing—“

“Shut up,” John cleared his throat, “Sherlock Holmes, you are a pain in the arse, but also the love of my life, will you please make me the happiest man in the world,”

“You aren’t happy already?” Sherlock asked confusedly.

“Marry me,” John said, and his tone was suddenly serious.

“I will,”

“I hoped you might say that,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may come a day when I stop writing cute flashback scenes that have little to no relevance to the current plot, but it is not this day!


	18. Artemis and Sherlock

Nestled against Sherlock, long after it was dark John finally asked the question he had been afraid of asking, “What was it like?”

“You need to add parameters to that question before I can accurately answer it,”

“Raising her, what was _she_ like. I always wondered about her. Thought about her. Almost obsessively. My little Artemis. A world away,” John explained.

“She was still a baby when you left, I stopped taking cases for a while. Anderson called it my ‘maternity leave’,” Sherlock began, “I couldn’t imagine how you did it, when I was, well you know, with both of them. I had my hands full with just Artemis. But she was better John. Better than the work.”

“I know what you mean,”

“I taught her things, earlier than I should have in retrospect, about music first, we played little deduction games, and I started taking her to crime scenes with me, nothing too dangerous of course,” Sherlock went on, “Then I saw. At school and things. She had trouble making friends. Actually she didn’t have any for the longest time. I should have told her to do things like the other kids did. Pushed her back into the world. That would have been logical. But I drew her closer to me. For years John when she didn’t have friends, I was her friend. It made me very happy of course. I loved her. I didn’t realize. I’ve always been so used to it in my life, having just the one friend and pouring all my attention on them, and maybe it’s okay for a man my age, but she was just a girl. She should have had friends besides her father.”

“You only wanted what was best for her,” John said.

“John she knows how to play every instrument in the modern orchestra. She can identify two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash.”

“Wow,”

“After a while she did sort of grow into herself, I suppose, make some friends, enjoy more, and it was fine then, I just, I thought of what you would have been able to give her, things I could honestly never provide,”

“Shut up Sherlock, she loved growing up with you,”

“Artemis, like most Watsons, cares too much for me for her own good,”

“I have to ask,”

“What?”

“Out of the two of you, when you went on crime scenes, who’s better at deductions?” John asked, “Do the Watson genes dilute the Holmesian intelligence of enhance them?”

“This doesn’t leave this room,” Sherlock lowered his voice, “It’s her. I try to pretend it’s me. But certain times, she’s picked up on leads faster than I have. That’s why I keep bringing her. Even though I tell her it’s because she needs more practice.”

John laughed, “My daughter is smarter than Sherlock Holmes, ah I have everything in life,”

“Shut up John,”

“You’re adorable you know that? You really considered Artemis your best friend?”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock said, “She was a better flatmate than you too. Never minded body parts in the fridge. Always up for violin duets at odd times of night.”

“You never crashed any of _her_ dates did you?”

“She doesn’t date,” Sherlock said.

“She could teach Athena a thing or two,” John admitted, “Athena dates a lot, I’d rather she wouldn’t as much sometimes,”

“Tell me about your life with Athena,” Sherlock demanded, “It’s only fair.”

“No, first, tell me why Artemis calls you ‘Sherlock’,”

“It’s my name, now you go,” Sherlock brushed it off.

“No come on,”

“We phased out ‘father’ when she was about seven, felt strangely formal, ‘Sherlock’ fit in well with the best friend dynamic, we also have a secret sign language, discreet hand signals, head gestures, eye gestures, we’ve been communicating like that this whole time,”

“You two are _really_ close,” John said, “That’s all I ever hoped for, when I was here. I mean not that I thought you wouldn’t be—“

“I know, it’s me, it’s a little surprising” Sherlock said, “I often ridiculed people for being so attached to their children before I had one. I just. When you left? I thought everything in my life was over. Then she started crying and I picked her up and she just stopped. She felt safe with me. God knows why. Everyone else says I’m a menace. I held her in my lap. She held onto my finger, so tight with that tiny fist. I don’t know what happened to me. It was suddenly okay.”

***

“Art, what’s it like living with father?” Athena asked.

“You mean Sherlock? It’s weird when you do that. It’s quite interesting actually, I’ve been to more dark alleys in London than is really advisable for a girl my age,”

“Know any self defense then?”

“Oh of course, Sherlock and I used to spar in the living room, that’s where he got the bruise on the back of his leg, and the one time he got a concussion when I knocked him into the lamp,”

“Intense,” Athena remarked.

“It really is,” Artemis said, as if the thought had suddenly dawned on her, “Is it weird for a girl to hang out that much with her father?”

“No, dad and I hang out, often, not _that_ much though,” Athena considered it, “It is a bit out of the ordinary, but you two are, by definition, out of the ordinary,”

“You don’t consider yourself out of the ordinary, we’re identical twins, equal intelligence quotient,” Artemis pointed out.

“You have different interests okay, I happen to like sports, a lot, I like socializing a lot more than you do, I’ve always found academics to be pretty easy but I tend to be a bit more easygoing,”

“Nature vs. nurture theory,”

“So you actually use all of that mental acumen that you certainly have, and put it into algorithmns for optimizing athletic performance, social performance, and _some_ academic pursuits,”

“You can’t argue that it’s not working, I’m varsity captain, President of the Student Government, and Prom Queen,”

“I must admit that’s impressive,” Artemis stroked her chin.

“So confession time,” Athena said, “You ever wish we had a mom?”

“Once or twice I’ve considered it, found the idea rather foreign, you?”

“I dunno, I mean, maybe it wasn’t just the urge for a mom, not really, it was the urge to have some secondary parent, someone who was with dad, and made him happy, and got along with me,”

“Sherlock’s with dad, currently in a way that I really don’t want to think about, but also generally, he makes him happy,” Artemis reasoned.

“Yeah see,” Athena said, “Dad’s always had this mental block, about what happened. The fall. When father died and didn’t tell him. Father told me most of the story when I was in London and I’ve sort of pieced together the rest from—“

“Various media reports, news outlets and—“

“Eavesdropping,” Athena confessed.

“I think they need time, they’re getting better, I can tell,” Artemis said thoughtfully.

“Going back to what we were saying earlier,”

“Yes?”

“I never know what to say to him, I mean I know I am just as clever as you two, but I fainted at the crime scene, I have different interests, he doesn’t even know the rules of soccer did you know that?” Athena asked.

“Football, and of course he doesn’t,” Artemis laughed, “Listen, you want to be close to him too?”

“You’re supposed to be smart,”

“No right, of course, you do,” Artemis said, “Here two birds with one stone. Drive him to the mall.”

“You want me to drive him to the mall?”

“Just do it, listen to me,” she repeated, “Take him to the mall. Talk to him. It might even help him sort out all the stuff with dad. He trusts you. He knows how well you know John. He’ll definitely come to you about it.”

“Arty, the mall?”

“Get over that would you,” Artemis sighed, “By the way, if you really want to freak him out, discreetly blink your left eye twice then your right then your left, and crack your wrist,”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“ ‘Anderson is behind you’ in our signal language,”

“Oh the idiot,”

“Yes, exactly, now, you owe me, you got to tell me what life is like with John,”


	19. Athena and John

“It’s a pretty standard immigrant’s story,” John confessed.

“I want to hear it,” Sherlock said anyway.

“Alright, so when we came we didn’t really have much, I bought a apartment here and I started working down at the station, there was a Puerto Rican woman I hired to look after Athena in the daytime when I was at work, spoke only in Spanish, her name was Anna, Athena was fluent in Spanish and English by the time she was three,”

Sherlock nodded, indicating he wanted John to continue. 

“Funny thing is Athena didn’t actually talk much either, not at first anyway, I signed her up for kids football and that’s really when she started to break out of her shell, because she was really, really good at it, and I suppose everyone saw that and it gave her that confidence,” John went on.

“Photographs,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you have photographs of her growing up? I want to see them, I’m assuming you have albums around here somewhere,”

“Oh yes,” John pointed to the bookcase, “Top shelf, the black one and the brown one,”

“How quaint,” Sherlock remarked as he got them and came back to the bed, “One for each of us,”

He was silent a bit after that.

“You traveled quite a lot,” he observed, “Coney Island, The Grand Canyon, _Disneyland_ John really?”

“She liked Snow White,” John said, “I think she reminded her of what her mother might have looked like,”

“If I’m the mother in this analogy, I am greatly offended by that comparison,”

“Sherlock she was six, she couldn’t possibly guess that I’d previously been married to a gay consulting detective, a lot of kids have divorced parents around here, she just imagined we were like them,” John pointed out.

“She looks happy,” Sherlock noted.

“She was happy,”

“Did you ever talk to her about the past?”

“I couldn’t,” John admitted.

Sherlock looked through the pictures a long time. Asking John questions from time to time but mostly staying silent.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

“For what?”

“You know, these pictures, what I’m trying to say is—“

“You’re happy she had a good life, but you wish you had been there with her,”

“I wish we had been there together,”

***

“Living with dad is pretty easygoing actually, he likes his space, he likes a bit of adventure, excitement from time to time,” Athena explained, “We travel a lot. But always a trip to Britain at least once a year.”

“We might have passed each other in London and not known it,” Artemis realized.

“It’s possible.” Athena considered, “Dad never talked about the past though. Never. Only once I remember that he did and that was on my sixteenth birthday, when I asked for an explanation,”

“What did he say?”

“It was strange to hear actually, since he never says things like this, but I remember it almost word for word, he sat me down and he told me that he had loved something too much, that it had been destroying him, he told me it was the hardest thing he ever had to do,”

“I just don’t know how they were able to stay apart so long without spontaneously combusting or just going mad,” Artemis said, frustrated.

“I know I just want to shake dad sometimes and just tell him ‘Bollocks. You two freaking love each other and are so much better together, so get the eff over it’,” Athena said.

“You say ‘bollocks’ in America?”

“Did you miss the part where I told you we visit Britain every year,”

“I miss nothing,”

“Of course you don’t,” Athena smiled.

“You traveled a lot, got any pictures?”

“It’s the dead of night, we’d have to sneak into their bedroom, I don’t want to interrupt any—“

“It’s safe, balance of probability they’re done by now, if they even did it, I mean come on they’re middle aged, average sex drive—” Artemis reasoned.

“Artemis!” Athena snapped.

“Yes, yes I know, but like I said detachment is key for analysis,”

“Fine,” Athena said, “We’ll sneak in,”

***

“What’s that noise?” John asked.

“It’s our spawn,” Sherlock said dryly as he looked through some more pictures.

“I told you not to call them that,” John sighed.

“I ignored you,”

“Girls, we’re awake, you can come in,” John announced loudly from inside.

“Oh we wanted to see the pictures too,” Athena said brightly.

“Come sit with us on the bed, we can even bring out the album in the safety deposit box, the one with both of you,” John said.

“Yes, I’d really like you to explain why you were wearing such an egregious amount of black, was this the popular style?” Sherlock asked quizzically.

“Scoot over,” she put her feet under the covers and sat next to him, “I’ll tell you all about it,”

Artemis went and sat beside John, who put his arm around her and asked, “So Sherlock didn’t get you into _any_ of the Disney princesses?”

“No of course he did, did he tell you he didn’t? It was part of one of his parenting books, it was one of the things that ended up actually working, his favorite was _Beauty and the Beast_ ,”

“Sherlock, is this true?” John asked.

“I can relate,” Sherlock said, reddening slightly.

John smiled, shaking his head.

It was a strange thing to do in the middle of the night. But then again, they were a strange family. Every so often John would consider the image of the four of them sitting in the bed, it was exactly how it should have been. He remembered countless times back in the flat in England when they couldn’t get the girls to fall asleep they had brought them back to their bedroom and just held them for the longest time, just staying up and talking. He never thought he would have this again. Never. He had lost it forever. But now, somehow, it had come back to him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their lovely comments!


	20. Athena and Sherlock

Athena’s secret love was calculus. Publically she loved being popular, she loved soccer of course, but privately she adored the symmetry of mathematics. Just recently they had been studying small and large infinities. How some functions grew faster towards infinity than others. How the areas under their curves diverged, never settling on one value, but constantly jumping, while other functions that seemed to deviate constantly somehow, impossibly converged. And there was proof. There was l’Hopital’s Rule and differentiation, but above all there was a logic to it. A logic that said that when something went to the infinite the area it bounded either converged and was finite, or diverged and was impossible to tell. She had always thought of her dad and the life they lived here as a sort of bounding curve, keeping her safe, keeping her sane. Now that her father, Sherlock, was here she thought of him and John as a function together. With its maximum and minimum points, but ultimately when it went to the infinite she wondered, would it finally, impossibly, converge?

These were the kind of thoughts she regularly had whilst driving on the highway. It was a problem really. But now that she had met Sherlock she didn’t find it as odd. After all, he had spent the past five minutes deducing every person in the surrounding lanes by their car. No, she wasn’t weird. She was a chip of the old block.

“You can put on the radio if you want,” he said after having accused a red sedan of carrying a heroin-addicted grandmother.

“No, that’s not really necessary,” she gripped the wheel tighter.

“You want to, ever since you got in the car you’ve been fidgeting slightly, touched it right before you turned the key in the ignition, why wouldn’t you?” he asked.

“Put your seat belt on,” Athena reprimanded.

“You _are_ John’s daughter,” he buckled up reluctantly, “No you think I won’t like the music you listen to, you don’t know that,”

“No I’m pretty sure you hate the American Top 40,” Athena retorted.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m wearing a floral sweater and corduroys, what’s wrong with that,”

“You don’t dress like that,” Sherlock pointed out, “It’s not you,”

“How would you know?” she asked, and it came out far more cuttingly than she intended.

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive over there. Why did Artemis ask me to do this? Athena swore. This is just making it difficult. But as soon as she pulled into a parking spot and got out, she knew it was just about to get worse.

“Who are these clowns?” Sherlock asked, it was the first time he had spoken in twenty minutes, and Athena jumped at the sound.

“Friends from school,” Athena said quickly.

“Ah,”

“Hey Athena you didn’t know you were coming down today, should have driven up with us?” Kathleen flipped her long blonde hair, “Who’s tall, dark and handsome?”

“That would be my dad’s boyfriend,” Athena said, god this was awkward, if only the Earth could swallow me now, she thought.

“Your dad’s gay?” Hunter asked.

“He is,” she said.

“Cool,” he shrugged, “So. Um…why are you taking your dad’s boyfriend to the mall?”

“I’m British actually, I’ve never been to an American mall,” Sherlock explained, and Athena was vaguely shocked that he was actually speaking to her friends at all.

“They don’t have malls in Britain?” George asked.

“Of course they do,” Kathleen slapped him, “Do they have malls in Britain Mr. Athena’s dad’s boyfriend?”

“They do in fact have malls in Britain,” Sherlock answered politely.

“Right, so I’ll see you guys at school, we’ll be off,” she grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him towards the mall entrance.

“You might cut off circulation if you grip any tighter,”

“Sorry, I just…that was awkward,” Athena sighed, “Oh why did I pick this mall? There’s more of them inside.”

“How many such _friends_ do you have?” Sherlock asked.

“The entire student body knows me, and they are, yes, they all appear to be here today, just my luck,” she swore under her breath.

“You can curse out loud,” Sherlock said.

“Fuck!” she said loudly as after they went in through the revolving door.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I honestly did not think you were going to acquiesce that quickly,”

“No that’s Avery,” she cocked her head to a tall chestnut haired boy sitting in the food court.

“Avery? Oh. You were together. Does John know? How long were you two together? Are you still together?” Sherlock demanded.

Athena clamped a hand over his mouth, “Sssh, I don’t want him to see me, _John_ doesn’t know, and you will not tell him,”

“We’ll see,” Sherlock looked around at the different stores and glitzy displays, listening for a second to the music emanating from the speakers, “I don’t hate it,”

“You don’t?” Athena asked as they walked to Macy’s, “I always thought you hated anything non-intellectual, superficial, non-practical, idealistic—“

“Why would you possibly think that? That’s stupid,” he snapped.

“Yeah, I know, I’m the stupid one,” she picked up speed, walking away from him.

“Athena, I-“

“Save it,” she sighed, “Artemis thought this was a good idea. And maybe if I were her, it would be. But I’m not. And I never will be. I don’t spent my time studying music theory and statistical analysis. I party on weekends. I like going dancing. I’ve had boyfriends that John doesn’t know about. I have a tattoo. I have this insane energy inside me, this need to live. Right now. I’m-I’m not a _genius_ like you two.”

Sherlock looked at her, and it bothered him that she seemed to be on the verge of crying. 

“Let’s grab a bite to eat,”

“What?”

“No, seriously,” Sherlock looked over at the food court, “John always fed me when I got worked, it helps, trust me, we’re more alike than you might think,”

“Really? We’re alike,” she said mockingly.

“See here’s the thing. Artemis is way more like me the way I am _now._ But when I was young I was just like you,”

“You could tell me over some Chinese food,” Athena fished for her wallet in the pocket of her pants.

“I’ll pay,” Sherlock offered.

“I’m willing to bet your money’s still in pounds,”

“Damn,”

After she brought back her tray to the booth Sherlock looked at her sternly, “Now. When I say I was like you. I mean the reasons I did the things I did were the same. But the actions were obviously extremely unhealthy. You in contrast clearly have channeled your energies into far better, even productive pursuits.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I won’t repeat your mistakes. Just tell me,” Athena insisted between bites of lo mein.

“You first,” Sherlock said.

“What do you mean?” she took a sip of diet coke.

“Artemis doesn’t know, I was always afraid she’d veer off on the same track, it’s the one thing I’ve kept from her and I’m going to have to ask you to say nothing either. John is aware of it but has always asked to stay away from the details, if I tell you I think it’s only rather fair if you tell me something of equal or greater value,” Sherlock reasoned.

“You’re not a normal parent are you?”

“No,”

“So you’ll keep it to yourself,” Athena said.

“Just this once, I suppose, unless you’re in some immediate threat or danger,”

“You see that store behind you,”

“Yes, it’s quite dark in there,”

“I did it in the dressing room,” Athena admitted.

“You’re not a virgin, I had deduced that for myself,”

“Artemis says it helps to be detached when you make these sort of deductions,”

“A correct assessment I’m afraid,” Sherlock laughed, “Right. Alright. I’m in no position to judge that. I did it in a public alleyway when I was seventeen,”

“You? You did that?” she asked in disbelief.

“I had this weird urge to just _live_ , my mind was in a constant state of over stimulation, I just had to be doing things, it took me years to find the right outlet,” Sherlock sighed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but the way I always saw your relationship with dad he was the more experienced one who sort of came together with nerdier, genius probably-a-virgin you,” she said, “You know you would think saying this to my own father would be awkward but it’s not,”

“Romantically more experienced yes, he probably was, not the other way though, I was very, um, well I was at Uni, that’s _some_ excuse I suppose, not really,”

“Yeah not really,”

“And the reason,” he said, “That I think it’s not as awkward is pretty obvious too. I mean I never got to _be_ your father, we diverged,”

“Larger and smaller infinities,” she said softly.

“I used to take cocaine,” he told her, “I was an addict. I had tried to do something to get that energy out of me. It was maddening. Infuriating.”

When she looked at his eyes she still saw flickers of it there, the madness. The same feeling that coursed through her one veins.

“That’s why I play soccer, all the running, the kicking, the hitting, that’s where I get high,” she rationalized.

“And mathematics,”

“How do you know about that?” she asked.

“You had some printouts of multivariable calculus stuffed in between the copy of _Seventeen_ you carry with you,”

“How’d you get out?”

  
“The hard way I’m afraid, I almost over dosed fatally, fell into a coma, your Uncle Mycroft sort of confined me after that, rehabilitation,” he leaned back, “I had a wilder adolescence than even you. And I didn’t play violin as a teenager. I listened to rock and roll. If you can believe it.”

“You want me to know all of this,”

“Well you told me your thing, and I knew, that you knowing this was imperative, because I want to know you, John would have told me how to go about it, but he’s just had a lot on his mind lately, I had to figure it out for myself. ”

“It’s a lot to consider for him, he’s always been a bit shaken by the past,”

“I know,” Sherlock said, “Now. Are you going to tell me why you’re dressed like that?”

“I didn’t want you to think your other daughter was some slut. I mean I don’t dress _that_ badly. Not really. But in comparison to Artemis—“

“I don’t want you to compare yourself to Artemis, it’s ridiculous, you know that,” he explained.

“I just thought if you saw me now the way I really am then you’d judge me, and why wouldn’t you?”

“After all I told you. That I had a lot of sex at University. That I did cocaine, over dosed and almost died. After hearing all of it. Is your image of me shattered beyond repair. Did you judge me?”

“No, you’re brilliant, I love you, yeah you made mistakes, you’re not perfect, but I don’t really give a damn. Of course I didn’t judge you.”

“There’s your answer,”


	21. Artemis and John

“I’m honestly not sure how he’ll deal with the mall,” John remarked as they sat on the sofa, he flipped channels idly as he looked over at her.

“Not to worry Athena can protect him from the rampant consumerism and materialistic mindset intrinsic to places like these,” Artemis said, her nose buried in one of Athena’s books.

“That’s terrible,” John said as he watched the story about the kidnapping case.

“It is terrible, he should have changed cars at the train depot, that license plate led them right to him, not to mention traveling in broad daylight past that supermarket,” Artemis agreed.

“I didn’t mean the criminal was a terrible criminal, I meant the crime was terrible,” John explained.

“Oh, sorry then,”

“You don’t have to apologize,” John said.

“He should,”

“Sorry?”

“You want Sherlock to apologize, then you can get married again,”

“It’s not that simple, yeah I’d say we’re seeing each other again, and he has apologized, countless times, but I don’t think I can just rush back into the way things were,” John said gently.

“You love him don’t you?”

“Yes,”

“Then isn’t it that simple?” Artemis asked.

“Sometimes the simple solution isn’t the best solution, isn’t that one of your axioms?”

“You’re lucky you know, most people fall in love with their soulmates once, you’re doing it twice,”

“After all these years living with Sherlock, you still believe in something as idealistic as a soulmate?” John was surprised.

“Whenever I asked him why he wouldn’t date he told me he had a soulmate, and he had lost him, so it was a futile endeavor,” she shrugged.

“What about you? Do you believe in it? Separate from Sherlock,” John asked.

“Honestly no,”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t think there’s anything logical about the theory that a pair of people are drawn to each other for some magical reason, some supernatural pull, I mean people get together based on common interest, shared experience and a desire for sex.”

“I’m guessing you don’t dance either,” John said.

“No, of course not, I hate dancing, boring exercise, dull,”

“Oh then we just have to,” John turned the TV off, hold on I’ll get the CD.

“I’m not dancing,”

“Please, for me,”

“Alright fine, one dance,”

John dashed off to bring a CD, then came back and clicked it into the CD player.

“What’s the track?”

“Some of his earliest original compositions, you might not have heard some of these,” John answered, “Now, take my hand, and I’ll lead,”

“This is ridiculous,” Artemis griped as they went around the room.

“Oh keep up, you know you enjoy it, Sherlock loves it,”

“He does?”

“Dancing, yes, I got him into it,”

“And the soulmates theory? Did you sell him that ridiculous idea too?”

John laughed, “You two really like that word don’t you? You think I’m ridiculous too,”

“Of course you’re ridiculous, what sane man would marry Sherlock Holmes?”

“Point taken,” he twirled her around she tried to stifle a smile.

“I saw that,” he said.

“I do not dance,” she insisted, laughing.

“What do you call this?”

“Rhythmic movement to musical accompaniment,”

“I’ve missed this, the Holmesian snark,” John sighed, “I really have,”

***

“Athena has lots of friends around here,” Artemis remarked as they had lunch together.

“She’s really outgoing,” John admitted.

“What’s wrong with me then? We’re supposed to be identical, doesn’t add up,” Artemis said.

“Nothing’s wrong Artemis,”

“I know, I know, like you said before, it’s a gift, and hypothetically someone out there in the universe I’ve never met will fall in love with me for it, but what if that’s not true, should I change, should I be more like her, it should be possible, we _are_  the same,”

“No two people are the same, and you’re too special to be pushed into conformity like that,”

“It’s not easy,” Artemis gulped, “Sometimes I think I might rather be normal, you know in school, I don’t really have many friends, even now, I mean it’s better than before when I had none, actually never mind, I don’t want to spoil your mood, I-“

“I want to know,” John said, “All these years I’ve regretted not knowing you, and I’d like the chance to now,”

“I can’t talk to people the way they want to be spoken to,” Artemis said, “I always thought I was because I was more intelligent, and I am, but I see Athena,”

“You’re different people, first of all, and you have to ask yourself what it is that you want, do you want these people to like you, and is that worth being a person that you’re really not. Because Artemis Holmes is a fascinating woman, and I’d hate to see her change.”

“I do want them to like me,” she said sadly.

“I hate to break it to you, but people your age are very immature, you’ll go to Uni, major in something you’re really interested in, meet people _nearly_ and I said _nearly_ as clever as you are and you’ll be able to talk to them about the things that you want to talk about, not everything has to happen right now, you’ve got a brilliant life ahead of you with a mind like that. You have far more potential than I ever had. And if you still find it difficult to talk you just practice. And you’re a genius. Your learning curve is exponential.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I’m not very _cool_?”

“You picked that word up from Athena, and I quite frankly think it’s overrated, alright. The people I respected the most, when I fought in the war were the strategists, the ones who could help us get out of there alive. The brave ones, who would risk their lives catching a grenade so the rest of the unit could survive. The kind ones who would let themselves be shot protecting a civilian. I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the cool guys. There are more important things. And you have them.”

“I think perfectly horrid things sometimes, how can you be so sure I’m a good person and not some machine?”

“Well first of all, you’re Sherlock’s daughter, so thinking disturbing things is bound to happen, but you’re definitely a good person, because you’re Sherlock’s daughter and despite his best efforts to be a machine he’s far from it,”

“You can tell all of those great things about me because I’m Sherlock’s daughter?”

John laughed, “Well credit to you of course, for using your natural born talents, and credit to me. I didn’t want to brag, but you are also mine,”


	22. Kissing in the Rain

_Eighteen years earlier_

“I thought you said you wanted this,” John said.

“I do,” Sherlock said as he lay on the sofa, his eyes closed and his hands steepled under his chin.

“Then why,” John said, his tone growing a bit testy, “For the past two weeks, have you not gone down to the clinic? It doesn’t even take that long; I’ve already done most of the paperwork,”

“Don’t be tedious, work kept me,”

“Work? We haven’t been on a case since Thursday, come on, be honest, if you don’t want this we don’t have to do it, just talk to me,”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, “I told you when we first met that sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, you said it wouldn’t bother you,”

“It doesn’t,” John sighed, “It doesn’t bother me, really, I just want to know, how my _husband_ is feeling, if he’s okay, are you okay? Because you _seem_ like you’re not,”

“Oh I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped, “And by the way, why can’t _you_ donate the sperm?”

“It’s my sister,” John glared.

“Right, right, that would be genetically disastrous, Mycroft then,”

“I don’t get it, why can’t you? What’s so hard about this?”

“You want me to go, fine, I’ll go right now, nothing wrong at all,” Sherlock got up and dashed out the door.

“You forgot your coat,” John yelled after him.

“Don’t care!” Sherlock yelled back, “Weather will do me good!”

John sat in silence for a few minutes. Why was Sherlock being so difficult about this? It was such a simple thing. Then he looked outside. It was almost pitch black outside. It was raining. Of course it was raining. And this idiot out there catching pneumonia just to prove a point. He had to go after him. Bring him back inside.

John ran downstairs and out onto the street. Looking both ways he couldn’t determine which way Sherlock had gone. He was starting to get wet. Damn. He hadn’t brought a coat either. Quick he thought, what would Sherlock do? Sherlock would deduce which way John had gone. But how to tell?

He knew Sherlock had the map of London completely internalized. So he would take the shortest possible route to the clinic. Taking into account road closings and recent traffic data. John got out his phone and looked up the shortest route. _Left_.

He ran in that direction, people looking at him like he was crazy, dashing around jacketless in this downpour.  But he didn’t care. He had to get to Sherlock. Sherlock had left only minutes before John. Standard walking speed. John was sprinting. He should overtake him just about—

“Idiot, watch where you’re going,” Sherlock whirled around, “John, you’re drenched,”

“Excellent deduction,” John glared, “So are you,”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock gestured at the street around him.

“Look Sherlock I know I told you I really wanted kids, and I do, and I’m going to be honest with you, I probably always will, okay? It’s just the way I was raised. I’ve always wanted to, I don’t know, pass on a legacy, something stupid like that,” John explained.

“It’s not stupid,” Sherlock admitted.

“Just hear me out okay? I want that a lot, but if that’s not something you _really_ want to do then it’s out of the question,”

“Why would you say that? If it’s something you want that badly,” Sherlock looked at him quizzically, water droplets clinging to every strand of his hair.

“Because I’m going to want things. And you’re going to want different things. And you’re going to sulk. And I’m going to yell at you. And that’s what a marriage is. But the reason we stay together, through all of that, is because more than all those things, I want _you_. I always wanted you, I always will and nothing’s going to change that,” John panted, he hadn’t sprinted this much since his rugby days.

“Even if I never want kids?” Sherlock asked, and he was so sopping wet now that John could see his chest through his shirt.

“Even if you never do,” John nodded, “The real reason why I wanted kids with you Sherlock is it’s because it’s something we would do together, there would be something out there in this world that I look at and love just as much as I love you, which is a lot, considering the trials you put me through, I’m going to be sneezing for a week,”

“I was afraid,” Sherlock said, and John couldn’t tell if he might be crying or not because his face was already completely wet with rainwater, “I was afraid they might be like me,”

“Then they would be brilliant,” John laughed, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Not that John,” Sherlock said, and John had never before seen him look so anguished, “Like me, _weak_ ,”

“Oh,” it dawned on him, “You think that—“

“I can’t take that chance John, I cannot inflict that upon a child,” Sherlock said, “You might think me heartless but I—“

“You’re not heartless,” John said, and cliché though it was, he was kissing Sherlock Holmes in the rain.

“Let’s go home,” John said when they finally broke away.

Sherlock nodded.

That night as John held Sherlock in his arms, close enough so that Sherlock could hear the thudding of John’s heart, he carded his hands through his hair, “Now. I’m only going to ask you this one last time. And if you say no I won’t bring it up again for the rest of our lives. Now, I know it was hard for you, when you did those things that you did. You were lost. But our kids never will be. We’ll be there for them Sherlock. We won’t let them get lost. You’re an exceptional person, Sherlock. And I think you would make a great father. So I’m asking you, do you want this?”

“One condition,”

“Name it,”

“As long as it has you it’ll be alright, promise me you’ll love it more than you love me,”

“I promise,”

“Then yes,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days I'm going to write an airport reunion scene and basically check off every box of cinematic romance tropes there is.


	23. Bon Jovi

“This coat and scarf thing, has that always been your style?” Athena asked as they walked around the mall.

“Yes, I’d say so, since my mid-20s probably,” Sherlock remarked.

“Never wanted to wear leather and jeans? Dark sunglasses?”

“Not really my style, I would stick out way too much in London, anyway, not feasible,” Sherlock explained.

“Stick out? You wore a sheet to Buckingham palace,” Athena laughed.

“Proving a point,” Sherlock said, “Entirely different scenario,”

“Come on,” Athena smiled mischievously, “Branch out a little,”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock snapped, “Out of the question, I am not letting _you_ dress me up,”

_Two hours later_

“Sherlock are you having a mid-life crisis?” Artemis laughed when he came in.

Athena came in after him, dressed to match in a leather jacket, aviator sunglasses and dark washed jeans with tears in them, “Is our swag too much for you?”

“Please, dear god, never use that word again,” Artemis sniggered, “I leave you alone for a few hours and you become Bon Jovi, dad you have to come see this!”

“See what?” John came in from the other room, then glanced at Sherlock, “I’m not even surprised,”

“What’s wrong John? I know it’s not as subtle as turning up my coat color to look cool, but subtlety was never your forte,” Sherlock asked.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” John laughed, “I almost want to check outside to see if you drove here on a motorbike,”

“Oh drop the pretense,” Sherlock leaned in so that only he could hear, “You’ve been aroused the moment you set eyes on me,”

“Well I don’t deny it,” John whispered back, “But are you talking about now or St. Bart’s twenty five years ago?”

Sherlock blushed; of course the real moment John had set eyes on him had been twenty five years ago.

“Sherlock what’s wrong?” Artemis asked, “Finally seeing how ridiculous this is?”

“No, it’s me,” John said smugly, “I have that effect on him,”

“Say, um, John, I really wanted to talk to you about some urgent, um, adult stuff, upstairs, you know, the girls’ financial future, higher education, things like that,” Sherlock got up and gestured for John to follow him.

“Oh yeah, of course,” John said nonchalantly, going after him.

After they had left Artemis and Athena gazed at each other knowingly.

“Them?” Artemis asked.

“Definitely,” Athena answered.

“ _Adult_ stuff,” Artemis sniggered.

“Most definitely,”

“Soda?”

“Sure,”

“Coke or Sprite?”

“Coke”

“Cherry?”

“Yeah,”

“Did you plan this?”

“Let’s just say I had a hunch that dad appreciates Jon Bon Jovi,”


	24. The Name Game

“I’ve always wondered,” Artemis said after they had finished watching the night’s film, “How’d you two come up with our names?”

“It was not easy,” John answered, “First of all. Sherlock rejected the first couple dozen suggestions I had.”

“They were dull,” Sherlock sighed.

“ _All_ of them?” John retorted, “How could all of them be dull?”

“Theodora,” Sherlock scoffed, “Honestly John,”

“It was my grandmother’s name,”

“Exactly, it’s a grandmother’s name,” Sherlock said.

“Well my grandmother wasn’t _always_ a grandmother, now was she?” John said exasperatedly.

“How’d you two possibly agree on the names back then if you’re like this about it now?” Athena laughed.

John thought for a bit, “Well, it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park, you know your father…”

_Seventeen years earlier_

“Victoria?” John asked as he read his newspaper in the living room.

“No,” Sherlock said from the kitchen.

“Elizabeth?” he suggested.

“No,”

“Margaret?”

“Are you just pulling names from monarchy?” Sherlock complained, “Come on John, you’re a writer, be more creative,”

“We are not naming them both Sherlock Jr.! I’m telling you,” John retorted.

“Don’t be agitated, it was just a thought,”

***

“So I didn’t get to hear any of your ideas,” John said as the diamond burglar was brought into custody.

“You’ve just solved a ten million pound diamond theft and you’re naming your babies,” Anderson shook his head.

“Well I can think of one name we can scratch off the list,” John said as Sherlock smirked.

“Ah, it’s always hard coming up with names,” Lestrade said.

“We could try Gavina, after you Gavin,” Sherlock said jokingly.

The detective inspector sighed, “Oh for the last time, it’s Greg!”

***

“What about Amelia and Abigail?” Mrs. Hudson said as she poured them tea, “I had a friend once who—“

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock took the tea cup, “Not really our style,”

“They’re a right sight better than some of your suggestions,” John pointed out from the sofa.

“What’s wrong with Carbamazepine?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s not a name it’s a chemical compound!”

“A chemical compound that happens to be an anti-convulsant, not to mention it’s many mood stabilizing properties,” Sherlock said defensively.

“Sherlock,”

“Cyclohexane?”

“Cyclohexane Watson-Holmes,” John said mockingly, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you wish to adhere to societal expectations and traditional boundaries of behavior,” Sherlock rattled off automatically, “It’s not too terribly surprising, your name is John, 30th most popular name in the country, I’ve done my research,”

“I need some air,” John sighed and left, “Thanks for the tea Mrs. Hudson,”

***

“I think you misunderstood me earlier,” Sherlock said when John came back, “You’ve been at the pub,”

“How did I misunderstand you? You don’t want a typical _boring_ name like ‘John’. You want something outlandish and interesting. But you’ve got to understand Sherlock. There’s a chance that these children will be brilliant. But there’s also a chance that they will be, well, not. And I’m honestly not sure whether you’re okay with that?” John explained.

“I don’t think John is a boring name,” Sherlock said.

“What about the other thing, will you be okay if they’re not like you? Will it disappoint you? I need to know, Sherlock,”

Sherlock weighed it in his mind for a few moments. Children running around. He had been imagining little Sherlocks running around. Little people who would be clever. Who would see the world the way he did. _But what if they were not like him?_ Then they would be like John. Loyal. Understanding. Good friend. Intelligent. Perceptive. Relying on intuition and gut feeling. Moral. Funny. Courageous.

“They could never disappoint me by being more like the thing I love most in this world, your thinking is illogical,”

John kissed him, “You're right. It was illogical to doubt that you would love them no matter what. But hey. You want a logical name then? What about Minerva?”

“What’s that got to do with logic?”

“Roman goddess of wisdom and war strategy,”

“Oh no, that’s what they were going to call Mycroft had he been a girl,”

“What were they going to call you?”

“You can’t tell a single soul,”

"I won't,"

“Artemis,”

***

“Beatrice,” John said as they lay in bed together.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Ashley,” John suggested.

“No,”

“Sarah?”

“Dear god no,” Sherlock scowled.

“Ah don’t be like that,” John ruffled his hair, “You have me now,”

“It’s not even that, I just find Sarah to be a gratuitously boring name!” Sherlock protested.

“Sure you do,”

“I’m serious,” Sherlock said, then he suddenly sat up, “What if we just call them Alpha and Beta?”

“No,” this time John flatly rejected the suggestion.

“Gamma and Omega?”

“Don’t want to hear it,” John almost smiled.

“Theta and Omnicron?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock if we keep going like this we won’t even have one name, let alone two,” John sighed.

“We could start a not list,”

“What do you mean?” John sat up.

“Get your laptop,” Sherlock demanded.

“You get it, you’re always using it anyway,”

“Fine I shall get it, if you insist upon being so lazy,” Sherlock huffed and brought the computer over.

“Now, what is this ‘not-list’?” John yawned.

“Don’t sleep, this is of vital importance, names can correlate to financial status, career aspirations, and a wealth of other—John don’t lie back down!” Sherlock snapped.

“Right sorry,” John adjusted the pillow so he could lean up against the headboard, “You were saying,”

Sherlock opened a word document, “Here we can brainstorm names we’re _not_ going to use, isolate the characteristics within them that we hate, and then narrow down a name that does not possess those characteristics through a sequential search of the 10,000 most popular names in Great Britain and Northern Ireland,”

“Or we could, you know, pick a name we like,” John said weakly.

Sherlock glared.

“Or this sounds good actually,” John said quickly.

“Right, so names you hate,”

“That’s easy um, Gertrude, Hamish, Erwin, Ursula, Montgomery—“

“John!”

“Wh-what’s wrong with those?” John sighed.

“We’re having twin _girls_ ,”

“Well the way you’re algorithm works can’t you isolate things from names we hate no matter whether their male or female,”

“Good point John, living with me your sharpness has improved considerably,” Sherlock typed the names in rapidly.

“What every man wants to hear from his husband,”

Sherlock ignored him, “Now from a cursory analysis I’d say you hate older sounder names, the prominence of the ‘u’ sound as well as the short ‘e’—“

“Sherlock, Sherlock, stop,”

“Yes, John?”

“What about this, you can come up with a name, all by yourself, and I’ll come up with the other, and then we’ll see how they fit together,” John said, “Alright?”

“Anything you want to put off limits on the get go?”

“Common poisons, scientific names of various animals, um, names of countries you found on the map, I do not want a Switzerland and Scandinavia Watson-Holmes running around the flat,” John insisted.

“I can accept those terms, how long do we have?”

“Tomorrow, same time as now, be here or else,”

“Or else what?”

“I’ll name them Anderson and Sally,”

***

“So, you first,” John said the next night.

“You’re ready for this?” Sherlock asked.

“Come on, out with it, you’ve had this smug look all day,” John demanded.

“Athena Jane Watson-Holmes,” Sherlock smiled, “I did some research, Athena is the Greek form of Minerva, so connection to logic, less of a connection to Mycroft, Jane is an English form of the old French name Jehanne, which is itself adapted from the male Latin _Iohannes_ from which derives the biblical name _John_ ,”

“Why are you staring like that? I followed all the rules. Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock looked at him, surprised.

“No you didn’t,” John laughed, “It’s just. It’s perfect.”

“Tell me yours,” he demanded.

“Artemis Ethylene Watson-Holmes,” John told him, “Artemis because it was going to be your name, and Ethylene because you were so dead set for a chemical name, and it took me a while to find one that didn’t sound completely bizarre. It’s a hydrocarbon apparently. It’s the natural plant hormone that—“

“Induces ripening in fruit and flower blossoms, I know,”

John didn’t quite know what to say, but from the look in Sherlock’s eyes he knew they had finally gotten it right, he grabbed the glass of milk he had set on the bedside table, “To Artemis and Athena,”

“They’re not even born yet, but fine, we’ll wish them the best of luck,”

“With parents like us they’re going to need it,”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock still doesn't understand why Cyclohexane is an unacceptable name for a baby.


	25. Violin Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock teaches Athena to play the violin.

“Now just remember initially it’s going to sound very, very bad,” Sherlock warned as he stood behind her and adjusted her hands.

_Twang!_

“Precisely,” Sherlock smiled, “Now show me the fingerings,”

Athena went through them one by one, occasionally at Sherlock’s face for flickers of approval.

“Can I actually play now?” she asked.

“No, fingerings first, you don’t play football without doing drills do you? If you don’t get to be Clint Dempsey without practice you can hardly be Vivaldi,” Sherlock asked.

“Clint Dempsey? Current captain of the American national team? I thought you didn’t know anything about football,”

“I read up, could be useful for a case, all filed away in the mind palace,” Sherlock said quickly, but Athena knew it was for her.

“Why would it possibly be useful for a case?” she laughed.

“Why would you want to learn violin from me?” he countered, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Maybe I’m just a bit crazy,”

He looked over his shoulder, as if checking to see if John would make a sudden appearance, “Not to worry, all Watsons are,”

After an hour and a half, well only forty five minutes of playing, as Sherlock had Athena master several positions, proper form, note reading and then and only then allowed her to produce sound, the Holmes-Watson household was graced by an extremely dissonant rendition of _Row, row, row your boat_.

“Excellent, that was horrible!” Sherlock said oddly gleefully.

“Sherlock you might want to rethink that exclamation,” John looked at him quizzically.

“Everyone starts off bad, you should have seen Artemis, it was so difficult to teach her, she kept trying to eat it,” Sherlock sighed.

“I was teething,” Artemis had the look of someone who had had this discussion before, “Of course it was difficult,”

“Yes, well, I might still have the bite marks to prove it,”

“She bit you?” John laughed, “She actually bit you?”

“Once or twice. Athena never bit you? See Artemis,” Sherlock gestured.

“It must have been all the crime scene exposure, I have a predisposition to violent outbursts,” Artemis retorted.

“Nonsense, you _love_ crime…oh,” Sherlock realized, “Bit not good?”

“What about the time you let me bring in a severed finger into show-and-tell?” Artemis laughed.

“A _finger_?” Athena made a face.

“He does that you know,” John pointed out, “Sometimes with the food,”

“Hey, I did plenty of typical little girl activities with you, you just weren’t cut out for them, the dollhouse for example, I was totally up for doing something normal with it but you wanted to stage a triple homicide,” Sherlock said in his defense.

“That was a joint decision,” Artemis said, remembering.

“Ah, well, who was I not to go along with what you wanted?” Sherlock said innocently.

“I was never really into dolls was I?” Athena asked.

“No, you pulled the heads off of yours,” John sighed, “Murder is written into the genetic code,”

“So I played the song, you still going to play me father, snow’s melted, you coming Artemis, dad?” Athena asked.

“When did I agree to play football with you?” Sherlock said nervously.

“Earlier, when we you were getting worked up over my lack of _inner_ _ear_ , we made a deal if I could play the song in an hour you’d verse me in football one-on-one,” Athena said, “Remember?”

“Right, well, maybe that’s not a good idea,” Sherlock said quickly.

“What’s wrong?” Athena laughed, “We had a deal,”

“Sherlock, don’t be a wimp, go outside,” Artemis snapped.

“John, they’re ganging up on me,” Sherlock looked to him for help.

“Your children, your problem,” John smiled.

“Oh so when they’re being difficult they’re my children and when they’re being reasonable they’re yours,” Sherlock said mockingly.

“Sounds about right,” John said, “Athena go easy on him will you,”

“Wouldn’t want to bruise his ego,” Artemis sniggered.

Sherlock looked at them all indignantly, “It will not be necessary to _go easy_ , I may not be an expert in things like this but I am not lacking in common skill,”

“Right what’s the center of the solar system? Big clue there?” John asked.

“Not this again,” Sherlock sighed, “It’s hardly fair,”

“Not fair?” John asked incredulously, “Don’t you care about the larger universe you’re in?”

“Of course not, you three are my universe,” Sherlock said automatically.

John blinked twice, a bit surprised at how readily that answer had come to Sherlock. Sherlock thought of them as the _entire_ universe? But he saw the truth of it in Sherlock’s eyes.

“But that would make us infinite,” John said.

“Two curves that tend to the infinite, when put together as a quotient, can readily tend to a finite value,” Athena answered.

“What does that mean?” John looked to Sherlock for an explanation, but it was Artemis who answered.

“Apart you’re undefined, together you converge,”

 ***

“So did she beat you?” John asked as they were getting ready for bed.

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,”

“Fine yes, but not by an embarrassing margin,” Sherlock admitted, “How come you and Artemis never came out? We could have had a respite from Captain Watson’s victory dance,”

“I was teaching her how to drive the car,” John explained.

“How’d that go?” Sherlock asked curiously, “As a person of superior intellect she no doubt knew the mechanics of the device perfectly,”

“I don’t know about all of that, but we need a new mailbox,” John laughed.

“Why? What happened to it?”

“Our daughter,”

“Did you enjoy the concert?” Sherlock asked.

“It was honestly more fun listening to the two of you argue while you were teaching her, hey how come you never taught me?”

“You never expressed any interest in violin instruction,”

“We were raising twins and solving crime, I was otherwise occupied,”

“Come here,” Sherlock brought the violin, stood behind John and positioned it by his head, directing John’s hand to hold it up while curving John’s fingers around the bow.

“I thought you were all about not playing until you’ve figured out the fingerings?” John asked.

“Well you’re not really playing,” Sherlock explained, “I am,”

He curved one of John’s hands into a simple position down the strings, “Hold there,” then he held his hand over John’s on the bow, “Should work,”

And saying so he played what was probably the simplest of songs he could think of with John’s hand under his own.

“So now I can play the violin,” John said.

“Technically no, but fine,” Sherlock took the violin from John and turned him around.

“That was nice Sherlock, really nice,” John said.

“I can be nice,”

John kissed him slowly, as if they had all the time in the world right then.

“What was that for?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re my universe too,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually don't know how to play violin. And if any of you do, and if anything I've said is at all inaccurate, I apologize. I have a few friends that play in local orchestras, whose shows I've been to, so I'm at least at casual fan level, so I don't think it could be that bad. Also, on an unrelated note, if any of you want to check out the novel 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' by Jonathan Safran Foer you definitely should. The narrator is basically what I consider to be the ultimate kid!Sherlock. Anyway that's my two cents.


	26. How Artemis Could Tell Part One

“He wants to ask John to move back to Britain with him,” Artemis said as she sat with Athena on her bed, they were alone, two mirror images conversing.

“How do you know? Did he tell you?” Athena asked.

“God no, I know him, I can see it,” Artemis said thoughtfully.

“Why can’t he just ask him then?”

“It’s never been easy for him to say what he’s feeling,”

“Then how can _you_ tell?”

“Well,” Artemis considered, “He never really told me that he loved me either. But I just always knew.”

_Sixteen years earlier_

Sherlock never had many pets as a child. At least not for very long. He found that he quickly lost interests in their activities. And after one or two slightly questionable studies he performed on them he eventually transferred the responsibility for them to Mycroft or Mummy. Such was the case with the hamster, the parakeet, the turtle and the goldfish. Sherlock simply wasn’t cut out to have another organism depend entirely upon him for its care and attention. Redbeard was the exception of course, but that’s because he was more of a friend than a dependant, as he took care of Sherlock more than Sherlock took care of him. A baby of course was far more complex than a pet, Sherlock mused. After all it would one day grow into a complicated, multifaceted human being which felt deep emotions. How fascinating, Sherlock thought. Yet though Sherlock had long considered procreation, the significance of multiple generations, not the act that caused it, he had never really thought through the possibility that he would be all alone in an empty flat, now devoid of John, with the consequence of his own procreation. Yet there it was. Still asleep as she had been when her other father left, Sherlock thought, reliving the fresh pain of it for the millionth time. The unluckiest child in the world, Sherlock thought bitterly. Sherlock Holmes’ baby.

He had been a good father so far, he thought. But that was before. Before _it_ happened. And she had been so little. He had learned to sing songs, and to rock her to sleep and to change diapers and to give baths and all of the things one did when raising a baby. That wasn’t what scared him. He was scared of what would happen when she got older. Whether he would be enough for this little person to hold onto in this world he knew could be so dark, cold and foreign. There was a bond between them, he knew, as he stood over the crib and saw the perfect black curls of her hair he felt the familiar protective feeling that he knew was simply an evolutionary consequence, but considered to be undeniable proof that he and he alone was Artemis’ father. It was the feeling that told him it would be completely rational to throw himself in front of a train if it would save her. The feeling that said that anything within his capacity to make sure she was happy, protected and healthy would be done. Sentiment. Crippling sentiment, he thought. But he found that he didn’t care. Because sentiment was good. Sentiment meant that he was human after all. Which meant in turn that he could be a father for this tiny, helpless thing that deserved so, so much better than him.

When Artemis woke she started to cry. And as she raised her tiny arms the feeling made Sherlock reach down to pick her up without even thinking about it. He sat them both on the sofa and bounced her on his knee before she quieted down and sucked her thumb. Then he settled her into his lap and kissed one of her chubby cheeks as he had seen John do many times. So much sentiment, he realized. Yet even though it had hardly been an hour since John left him forever, he had the strange sort of happiness a person gets when they realize that though they’ve fallen hard they haven’t lost _everything._ As he sat there holding his daughter and realizing how oddly good that felt, for no logical reason at all, he had the irrational thought that it might not be so bad to just hold her there, safe from the world, all warm and soft and nice smelling, and to just stay like that forever. It was the only thing that made sense now. He had lost John. His sun, his center. And he suspected the gaping void in his body that currently felt as if someone had taken a saw and sliced a center of chest open, leaving a cavity in the place where most of his major arteries and lungs were supposed to be, would always be there. If the scenario was any different he might have gone and done something foolish. Taken his life or acted on his darkest impulse to become a serial killer, he was sure he would be a gifted one. Yet because of this small little thing in his lap, which had recently taken to repeating the word “Daa”, which he strongly suspected was her name for John, he found that he simply could not. John had left him forever. But Artemis, his daughter, needed him. And he needed her even more.

Over the next few days he explained everything to her. Ridiculous though it was. After all, it was hardly likely that she could understand what he was saying.

It started as he was feeding her in the morning, right after she had spit up a bite that had apparently been too large on his perfectly tailored purple shirt, “I am sorry, Artemis. I was gone for a long time. But you must understand that I had to do it. They were going to kill him. And you. And the sister that you had but will never meet.”

“Daa!” she said gleefully.

“Yes, John’s gone, I’m afraid that’s my fault too, it would only be logical I suppose to grow up hating me for taking him away from you, but that probably won’t happen either. I don’t plan on letting you know of his existence when you’re old enough to understand it anyway. That was the deal. The deal I made with ‘Daa’, before he went away.”

He put another bite in her mouth and wiped off her chin with a napkin, god he had to clean up around here. John was going to kill him if he saw this—nevermind.

“As I was saying, I can understand if you’re upset, he was certainly upset, in fact he was upset enough to punch me. That’s why I have this bruise right here. And several others I could show you sometime later…”

He continued when he was changing her diaper later that day.

“You really do smell atrocious you know,” he remarked, “Anyway, I was telling you. On the roof on St. Bart’s there were many possible scenarios possible. All perfectly mapped out by myself and your uncle, who you’ll be seeing a lot more of now that I’m newly single. But more about him later. As I said there were several scenarios, all with a relative probability of occurrence. If at all possible I wanted to escape with my life but I was prepared to die.”

“Eee!” she squealed.

“I know, the thought of me dying is probably upsetting,” he noted, “But I’m here now, if that’s any consolation at all,”

He told her more in the park, as he sat her on his lap on the bench, and she watched the ducks on the pond, seemingly enraptured.

“So now that you understand the events that made it a necessity, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me,  I suppose you’ll have to anyway, as events have played out you’ve ended up with what can be considered the short end of the stick, I’m all you’ve got,”

At this Artemis giggled happily and grabbed the fingers of his hand, gripping them tightly.

Sherlock paused for a moment, “I just want you to know that I left you once, and I’ll never, ever, leave you again Artemis,”

“Daaaaa…”

“He loved you too,”

She twisted around his lap and touched her hand to his chest and pulled at his scarf.

“Like that do you?” he laughed, “John was partial to the blue one too, I suppose you could use it as a blanket, being quite small and all,”

“You and me, Artemis,” he went on, “The game is on,”

_Fifteen years earlier_

“I’m afraid we won’t be coming in on Friday,” Sherlock told Lestrade.

“Why not?” Anderson asked, “You never have other plans when there’s a crime spree,”

“It’s Artemis’ 2nd birthday,” Sherlock tried really, really hard not to smile, “I’m planning a little celebration,”

“Who would have thought?” Sally raised her eyebrows, “Sherlock Holmes, domesticated,”

“He’s not a cat, Donovan,” Lestrade said.

“Kitty!” Artemis exclaimed.

“The way her grasping powers shaping up I’ve estimated she’ll surpass you by the age of seven, enjoy it while you can,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Lestrade, you’re welcome to swing by around seven,”

He looked awkwardly at Anderson and Sally, “Well now since you know about it I suppose you could come too, but bring a present, no soft toys though, god knows she has enough of those,”

“Kitty!” Artemis repeated.

“No cats either,” Sherlock said before he dashed off, Artemis in tow.

“Why do you let him bring his kid to crime scenes again? Are we really that desperate?” Sally asked Lestrade.

“Yeah, actually we are,” Lestrade sighed.

***

“I must admit she appears positively glowing, you do dote on her,” Mycroft observed.

“Would you like to hold her?” Sherlock offered.

“No, I must admit I do not have your paternal instincts,”

“I didn’t have them either,” Sherlock admitted, “It’s a learned skill,”

“Ah, Molly you’re here,” Sherlock turned around, “Your goddaughter was wondering when you’d turn up,”

“False,” Mycroft said, “Artemis was asleep until you woke her up a few moments ago,”

“Thank you Uncle Mycroft, a pleasure as always,” Sherlock picked up Artemis and went over to Molly, “On the bright side your dress finally fits,”

“Oh it does!” Molly said brightly, “You know I saw it in a store window and thought it would set just nicely with her hair, all dark and curly, not that all dark curly hair looks good with pink, just she’s so adorable, well, you know what I mean,”

“I do actually,” Sherlock said, “I have been meaning to say in fact, last few months, you being around, well, um,”

“You don’t have to thank me, Sherlock,” Molly smiled, “I love seeing you and Artemis, and I know as soon as John comes around—“

“He’s not,” Sherlock said quickly, “He’s not coming around, Molly,”

“Well I’ll be here,” she said, reaching out to take Artemis from him, “As a friend that is,”

“You always have been,”

***

After they all had gone, Sherlock sat Artemis in his chair, and played the piece he had composed for her, seeing her look at him with those big, blue eyes as they slowly drooped and she dozed off. He wasn’t too surprised. It was a long piece after all. If notes were words he had strung together a dictionary’s worth just to tell her how much he couldn’t live without her.

He picked her up, her head resting in the crook of his neck and then, for the first time in months he felt the debilitating absence of John. He should be here. They should be celebrating together. Artemis should have him too. Artemis should have the world.

“Tomorrow I’ll teach you to deduce,” Sherlock said as she shifted in her sleep, gripping his shoulder.

He laughed, “And then you’ll be solving cases faster than I can,”


	27. How Artemis Could Tell Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis and Athena deal with their problems differently. Sherlock finds other ways to tell Artemis he loves her without actually saying it.

It was the little things. It always was, especially in a mind like Artemis’, where so many smaller facts and details and individual joints came together, connections spiraling out of control, until sometimes even Artemis herself couldn’t tell why she knew what she knew. She just did.

It was the ‘Restaurant game’ they sometimes played, starting from when Artemis was four, where they would sit across from each other and take turns deducing every single person around them. It was the split second look of joy he got when she insisted he eat something, but there was a bit of nostalgia there too, as if there had once been someone else who insisted similarly. It was their daily violin hour, where they would play, compose, or critique existing compositions. It was the mutual agreement they had to take a portion of the kitchen and convert it to an in-home laboratory, complete with ridiculous matching lab coats, the letters ‘A.H.’ and ‘S.H.’ stitched on respectively, though initially of course hers had fit like a dress and they simply didn’t make industrial strength safety masks and goggles for a child that small.

People always implied to her how much Sherlock had changed after having a daughter. As if the Sherlock of before would have been a simply terrible father. As if they were frankly surprised they had made it this far. She was never really sure what to make of it. But there were things. Little things in the long run. That convinced her that they couldn’t possibly be right.

***

Artemis was seven years old. There were so many thoughts in her mind, racing with each other in a never-ceasing competition over which one she would get to mull over and expand next. Thoughts popping up like bubbles, swelling with new data until they were magnetized and attracted to a potential connective thought, until they all formed a sticky mental web of information. Thinking was natural to her. Thinking was easy. Speaking however, not so much. She even knew why. There was simply too much to say, she couldn’t filter fast enough, pick what was important, process and restrict the rest. Maybe it was that. Or maybe she was just nervous. Another thought. She would consider it later. The balance of probability.

It hadn’t been a problem, not until the first day of school that year, when a boy named Alfred had come up to her.

“I’m Alfred, what’s your name?” he had asked innocently.

“A-Alfred? From the accent your Scottish, t-though I hear a bit of Welsh, you were born in Wales, moved to S-Scotland then came here, s-shirt’s freshly ironed, as w-well as slacks, b-but you’ve got a bit of cider spilled on y-your shoulder, hmm-no-wait y-you’ve got a maid, y-you’re rich but your parents don’t pay attention to you at h-home—“ she had spoken very, very, quickly.

“I asked for your name!” he had said indignantly, “My parents pay attention to me!”

“A-Artemis, and no they don’t,” she had retorted, not realizing why that would possibly hurt him, it was after all a fact, Sherlock believed in facts.

“They do so,” he had said, then smiled, “But at least I don’t stutter!”

“I-I don’t stutter,” Artemis said, “Sometimes I just get an overload of d-data, Sherlock says it’s perfectly normal, and tha-“

“You did it again,” he said smugly.

“N-no,” she shook her head, black curls swinging from side to side, “I didn’t, you must have misheard me,”

But the damage was done.

She dreaded being called on, when the teacher would ask a question and a million things would come to her mind, all the things she knew and wanted to say except a simple one sentence answer and when she spoke it would become this stilted, jumbled mess.

And the kids would snicker in the corner, in the hallways, she could hear them.

On some occasions when they came up to her they would imitate her.

“D-do y-you want to come p-play with us Artemis?”

“T-that’s a n-nice barrette A-artemis, m-mind if I t-take it?”

“N-nobody e-even l-likes you, not even your freaky dad,”

She got back at them in her own way when possible.

“It’s a s-shame you’re adopted,” she would say with a straight face.

“You h-have a s-spine condition,”

“I’m s-sorry your d-dad got s-sacked,”

But mostly she just took it. Because logically, what else was one to do? She wasn’t the type to cry. Never had been. Not for scrapes. Not over the bodies of the dead victims she saw in the morgue. Never.

She only hoped, desperately hoped, that Sherlock wouldn’t find out. Wouldn’t be worried.

 _Artemis is very bright, extremely bright._ The school reports said. _But she doesn’t seem to want to contribute to the class. She barely speaks. Also, she seems to like correcting the grammar on the worksheets I’ve assigned, I was wondering if you could speak to her about that._

Sherlock hadn’t made a big deal out of it at the time, “Why don’t you talk in school?”

“T-too slow,” she said, “The classes are too slow for me, I-I see no reason to, and her grammar is atrocious,”

Sherlock had given her that look he sometimes did. The one where it seemed like he could see right through her to the wall on the other side, “If you say so,”

She didn’t exactly know why it kept happening. Maybe it was just that at school, there were so many, many people that her mind was going haywire. Too many things to see. Too many people that she knew too many things about. And none of it was in order. The only time she could really speak clearly was with Sherlock. It happened so rarely when it was him. Or Aunt Molly, Uncle Lestrade and Uncle Mycroft, and dear old Mrs. Hudson, who she secretly thought of as her grandmother. Being around them made her mind quiet down. She was to store, to organize, to process. She wasn’t being pushed and prodded. But at school the pressure was on. At school she was on display. She just couldn’t help it. And she hated herself for it.

It all came to a head the night of the school play. She had been practicing her lines for weeks. But with that spotlight on her, a whole crowd of people in the audience, deductions racing a mile a minute, and she just lost control.

“D-do n-not go there, M-Montag!” she said her line quickly, and suddenly she could hear it, the laughing, exactly 37 people, her mind told her, 25 children, 5 women, 7 men. She could tell by the sound alone.

Then she had done a most illogical thing. A most illogical thing indeed. She had run backstage, right in the middle of the play, she had run backstage and not looked back.

When Sherlock found her she told him she’d ‘rather not d-discuss the matter’ and to ‘t-take her out the b-back door’ which he then did. But she had never seen him look so sad. And she thought, sadly, that he was sad because she had failed him.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked her back in the flat.

“I-I am not destined for a c-career in theatre performance,” she had said plainly.

“Artemis,” he said his voice oddly stern.

“I-I’ll tell you when I’m ready, S-sherlock,” she said.

“S-sherlock,” she repeated, desperate to get it right.

“S-sherlock,” she said again, and if ever she had been dangerously close to crying this was it.

“Artemis, please,” he had sat down on the sofa, and put his head in his hands.

But she had already run up to her bedroom upstairs. She planned to stay there forever.

Yet eventually she found that this wasn’t the best idea. She may be utterly humiliated and exiled from the world forevermore. But she was quite hungry.

When she tiptoed downstairs at 3 am, she found the light in his bedroom still on, maybe she could open the fridge and he wouldn’t notice, just step lightly and—

“I know you’re out there,”

Oh god, she should have worn socks. Artemis walked over to his door and pushed it open, he was sitting under the covers of the bed, laptop on his legs.

“Why are you still awake?” she asked.

“Research, could ask the same to you,” he replied.

As she jumped on to the bed she saw him quickly close the tabs, the heading ‘Psychological Impacts of Peer-to-Peer Harassment’ flashing right before the familiar desktop background of the periodic table of elements popped up.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Artemis said, “I-I k-know t-that—oh forget it,”

“I am,”

“W-what?”

“That you did not feel it necessary to tell me,”

“Oh,”

“There is a solution, if you can believe it, but in order to classify it as a solution I would have to classify this as a problem, which I do not,”

“Of course it’s a p-problem,” she said indignantly.

“Do you trust me?”

“Trust is illogical,” she shot back.

“Granted, but do you?”

“Yes,”

“Then trust me when I say there isn’t anything wrong with you, so that when I tell you how to make it easier you won’t be under the wrong impression,”

She sat in his lap and pulled the computer onto hers, “Is that what you were looking up?”

“Artemis you’re growing far too big to be sitting like this,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Maybe I’m not growing bigger, maybe you’re just growing smaller,”

“Balance of probability,” he smiled, but made no effort to move her.

“What’s the trick?” she asked.

“I stuttered too for a bit, there’s too many thoughts, it’s a barrage, that’s why you have to build a mind palace,” Sherlock explained, “I didn’t think you’d need it this early, clearly I was wrong,”

“Can you show me?” Artemis said excitedly.

“You originally came downstairs because you were hungry,”

“No, no, that can wait, tell me how to do it!”

“Well I’m having some milk and cookies, so you’re going to have to wait a while,” he announced.

“I suppose I could have some too,” she admitted.

As they dipped cookies into milk and he explained to her how it works she thought she could finally ask him, “In which room do you put the pain?”

“Myself? This flat, upstairs bedroom,”

“Why there?” Artemis thought, that’s where she slept.

“Multiple reasons, the previous tenant, and well, logically if that’s where the pain is there should be something there that makes it better, where will you put yours?”

She thought about it, “This flat, downstairs bedroom,”

“Makes sense, close to the laboratory,”

“No, you said to find what makes it better, it's where I find you,”

***

When she was eight years old she discovered the fall. So far in her young life she hadn’t been aware that her father was as famous as he was. He had apparently stopped taking as high profile of cases, and when he had done so tried to keep his help anonymous. Yet nevertheless, as she Googled his name for the first time she was shocked at the old articles.

_Suicide of Fake Genius_

_Richard Brooke Tells His Story_

_The Reichenbach Fraud_

_The Hero Vindicated: Back from the Dead_

Then there was the video. Taken from a nearby building, the shots of him falling, seemingly to his death, all except a clear view of him hitting the concrete. It sent chills down her spine. And she saw dismembered bodies every day.

For a few days it was all she could think about when she saw him. As they walked together down the street she imagined him jumping off that building. When they talked at the crime scene and saw bloody bodies on the ground she imagined his bloody body splattered on the street. When his coat flapped up in the wind she imagined how it had flapped up as he hurtled towards the ground.

Artemis had nightmares about it. Every night in her dreams, he came onto that roof. He stepped dangerously close to the edge, she gave him her hand, but every time he slipped. He fell. He fell. He fell again.

He noticed she was being jumpy, but matters finally became clear when they were investigating up on a roof. She watched him go closer to the edge, not nearly close enough to jump, but it still frightened her.

“No, you can’t,” she grabbed his arm, “You’ll fall,”

“I’m nowhere near the edge,” he said confusedly.

“Please,” she begged, and he acquiesced, stepping nearer to Lestrade.

“What was that about?” he asked the detective inspector, as he let her take pictures of the scene herself.

“Sherlock do you have any parental controls set on your laptop?” Lestrade.

“No, it’s password protected, if she can guess it, she can see whatever she wants,” Sherlock explained.

“Bad policy, mate,”

“What? Why? What could she possibly see that—oh”

“Sherlock, you’re a good man, and a great father, but one of these days I am going to throttle you, you know that,”

“I’d most likely deserve it,”

When they were at home he decided to address it head on.

“You’ve seen it then,” Sherlock said, taking off his scarf.

“Please don’t fake your death and leave me,” she said simply, “I know I’d probably go live with Uncle Mycroft, and I love him, I do, but I’d rather you didn’t, you know,”

“I’m sorry John,” Sherlock said even without realizing he was saying it, as it was his automatic response to conversation having to do with the fall, after having rationalized it was the only thing one could say.

“John?” she asked confusedly, “Your old flatmate you forbid us to talk about?”

“I’m not going to fake my death and leave you,”

“Who’s John?”

“Nobody you need to know,”

“Can you tell me why?”

“There was someone after your life, I had to,”

“Where was I when you were gone?”

“Aunt Molly used to drop in to look after you, Uncle Lestrade and Uncle Mycroft too,” not a lie, Sherlock thought, not really, they had helped out a lot.

“Oh,” she said, “That makes sense, well I’m off to bed,”

“So soon?”

“I have to add this to my mind palace,”

He nodded understandingly. She thought she was okay now, after all, he had explained. But at night the dream came again. And it was so real this time, she was sure if she went to his bedroom now it would be empty. She was actually sure that he really had fallen. So far down. So quickly. To his death.

It was completely dark in the room but somehow she shook him awake and found a pulse, “You’re alive!”

“Artemis, what are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re alive, stick out your tongue,”

“Why will that prove I’m alive?”

“Just do it,”

“Enough proof?”

“Crack your knuckles,”

“Artemis,”

“Sherlock Holmes!”

He cracked them, “Good now?”

“Heartbeat,” she got under the covers, rested her head against his chest and listened to it, “Strangely elevated but present,”

“That does tend to happen when one’s offspring wakes them up in the middle of the night,”

“Breathe through your mouth,”

“Um-“

“Do it,”

“What does that prove?” he asked.

“Both your air passages are not constricted,” she said, “In the dream you weren’t breathing,”

“Oh, that’s what this is about,” he sighed, “Well. What can I really say. I am alive. I shall do everything in my power to make sure we aren’t parted. And try my best to remain alive.”

“You can’t promise you’ll never leave?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he explained.

“Why not? It might make me feel better,” she offered.

“You’re too important, and there are uncertainties in life you can't account for, sometimes the ones that love us do leave us, whether or not the decision is in their control, and I don't want to give you any falsely idealistic notions,” Sherlock answered.

“Can I sleep in here? Just for tonight?”

“You’re afraid I’ll pass on in the night? It’s highly unlikely, I can promise you that,”

“Even so, let me listen to your heartbeat,”

A few minutes passed before he asked, “Well, am I still alive?”

“Average of 89.5 beats per minute, standard deviation of 5 beats, I’d say so,”

“I have a room in your mind palace don’t I?”

“Of course, this room,”

“Is it still there when I’m not around? Or does it cease to exist?”

“It’s there,” she answered.

“Then logically you can never lose me,” he said, leaning down to kiss her hair.

She thought about it a minute, “Stay alive, Sherlock,”

“Stay alive with me, Artemis,”

***

_Present day_

“I’m telling you, he’s never going to tell John, he doesn’t tell people these things, what exactly he’s feeling,” Artemis explained.

“What does he do?” Athena asked.

“He shows them, it’s the little things, it always is,”

“I solved my initial speech problem a little differently than you did, I did somewhat organize, but that wasn’t really what did it,” Athena pointed out.

“What did you do?” Artemis asked curiously, “How was it effective?”

“When the kid made fun of me the first time I punched him in the face, never stuttered again nor heard from him since,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up resisting the urge to write flashback stories. I enjoy it too much.


	28. A Trip to the Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall John visits Sherlock's parents.

_Seventeen years earlier_

He hated to admit this, he really did, but it ached to look at the twins. John loved them. He loved them more than his own life. They gave him something to live for. But as much as he loved seeing Sherlock in them it also carved out a hollow in his heart. To see that same dark hair, the same pale, fine features on childlike faces, and to know with certainty that he would never see their father again. Not in this lifetime anyway.

Nights were always the worst. He was lucky he had a few tapes of Sherlock playing the violin; he hadn’t really realized how much Athena and Artemis depended on the beautiful violin solos to fall asleep. But eventually the music would become too much for him to hear, and he would turn it off, singing to them himself. Sherlock had always said he had a terrible singing voice but insisted upon hearing it anyway. Prick. Oh god, Sherlock.

He didn’t get much sleep on account of the twins. But that just gave him an excuse to sleep during the day instead. That would free him from the nightmares somewhat. He found it harder to dream of Sherlock in the clear light of day, when his rational mind told him quite sternly that he was definitely, permanently, dead. Harder, but not impossible.

Greg told him to join a support group for people who had lost their spouses, but he didn’t. Therapy had never helped him anyway. Mycroft dropped in from time to time, but even Mycroft, who had always found rather aloof and strange, began reminding him so much of his late brother that John thought for sure he was slowly going mad.

He began seeing Sherlock in everything. First it was in Mycroft, the obvious intellect, socially awkward mannerisms. But he also saw it in Sarah, the way she smiled at him, it was kind, Sherlock’s smiles for him had been kind. Only for him. He saw it in the supermarket. Sherlock had never been able to shop there. For all his genius he was always coming home with the wrong brand or the wrong size. He saw it in the streets, the streets they had ran together. He saw it in the people. Every person. Sherlock would have deduced them. Sherlock would have known everything about them. Sometimes when he walked out alone, having left the twins with Mrs. Hudson, he imagined Sherlock was right next to him, he turned to face a person who wasn’t there as he walked, felt his hand grasp for another that wasn’t there, laugh at a joke no one said.

“Make a deduction,” he demanded on day, as Mycroft was holding Athena, awkwardly patting her head.

“John,” Mycroft said simply.

“Please, your voice, it’s almost the same cadence, and I just need to hear it,” John said desperately.

“John this cannot continue,” Mycroft put Athena down gently, “You must let him go,”

“How can I…how can you ask me—“ John began.

“If you ask me, it’s the flat. Been here too long. Go to the country. Go see my mother,” Mycroft ordered as he got his umbrella, turning to leave.

“What about the girls? I can’t just—“

“It is a weekend. I can take them.”

“You? They’re little terrors…and you…”

“You hardly believe little Sherlock was an easy child?” Mycroft chuckled but for the first and only time John could see how much it pained him, not having Sherlock here, a flicker of emotion in the otherwise cold, calculated stare.

“No, I suppose I don’t,”

“For what it’s worth, the dust on your shoes tells me you’ve been to his grave twice this week, once on Monday and once on Wednesday both times around mid-afternoon, the second time you went up to the cemetery gate but couldn’t go in, you’ve lost twelve pounds, you can’t sleep an average of more than three hours a night, you had some coffee this morning, talked to your sister for the first time in weeks, took a few more calls from old army mates, and you had the wedding band cleaned,”

“Fantastic,”

“It should be, I taught him,”

***

John had met Mrs. Holmes and Mr. Holmes five times. Once before when they came into town, prior to him and Sherlock being a couple.   Once after they announced their engagement. Once at the wedding. Once  shortly after Athena and Artemis were born. And the last time at the funeral.

Mycroft was crazy, he thought. Just when he couldn’t stop seeing Sherlock everywhere, here he was going to his childhood home. Seeing the people who raised him. Great idea, John thought. Simply marvelous.

When he drove the rented car to the house he was surprised. He had never actually visited the house before. They had always come into London. In his mind he had always pictured the Holmes’ as rich. The posh attitude and upper-class attire that Sherlock and Mycroft projected had confirmed that mental image time and time again. But this house was quaint. White with blue shutters. On the smaller side. He spotted a lake in the back. There was a large tree in the front, perfect for climbing. Did Sherlock ever climb this tree? He found himself wondering.

“Oh John,” Sherlock’s mother hugged him as he came in and he held on a few seconds, stepping back to see Sherlock in her, in her cupid’s bow lips and her graying curls.

“John,” Sherlock’s father pat him on the back, “How are my grandchildren?”

John forced a smile, “Oh they’re doing great, crawling everywhere, touching everything, soon they’ll be off doing experiments and I won’t know what to do…”

They continued to the kitchen, where John sat at the table he suspected the Holmes boys had eaten at every morning in their youth and sipped some tea, telling the happy grandparents all about Athena and Artemis. It was after all the least painful thing to discuss. No one wanted to broach the elephant in the room. The empty chair.

Until finally Violet Holmes broke, “Where you’re sitting now, he used to sit there in the mornings,”

“Why—“ John started.

“Clear view to the window, deduce the people in the neighborhood getting ready for their morning commute,” Sherlock’s father explained.

There was an awkward pause as they all sipped their tea.

“You must have some advice about raising little geniuses,” John laughed, breaking the silence.

“Expect the unexpected,” Siger Holmes smiled, “The boys once took apart my car to see how it worked,”

“Don’t even complain,” Violet cut in, “Sherlock used the materials in my sewing kit to fashion rudimentary weapons,”

“When did you…when did you know?” John wasn’t sure what exactly he was trying to ask, but Mr. Holmes picked up on it immediately.

“That they were cleverer than me, probably the first time Mycroft pointed out plot errors and as he called it _discrepancies_ in the stories I told him when putting him in bed, he was four, same thing with Sherlock,”

“Sherlock had a phase when he liked to point out the _logical fallacies_ in everything, imagine that!” Violet laughed.

“He was a good kid though, wasn’t he?” John asked softly.

“Oh yes,” Violet laid her hand over John’s, “And he loved you more than anything. Talked about you like you were the world.”

“The thing is John, we didn’t do anything special raising Sherlock, fact is every parent thinks their kid is the most brilliant, the most extraordinary, we weren’t any different,” Siger said.

“You didn’t try to put him in any special schools? When you realized he was that gifted?” John asked.

“I asked, he didn’t want to, he wanted to pursue his own interests in his own time, Mycroft on the other hand, he wanted to advance rapidly, and he did,” Violet explained.

“One thing though, John, one thing you want to make sure, you have to make sure they know how wonderful their gift is, I’m a smart man John, but I’m not a genius, whenever the boys did something I knew was far beyond my purview even if I didn’t quite understand how, or why, I told them it was amazing,”

“Amazing? Of course,” John chuckled, remembering Sherlock’s reaction when he had used that very same word to describe his deduction in the cab, it had probably been the first time he had heard it since he was a child, “He _was_ amazing,”

***

As John walked around the house he imagined a young Sherlock in it. Violet and Siger had told him most of the furniture and the décor was the same as it had always been, so it wasn’t a stretch to imagine a young dark-haired boy racing around the sofa. Imagine him storing science samples in the fridge. Sitting by the window and reading. Hiding in the nook between the pantry and the living room bookshelf, which Violet had informed him had been Sherlock’s ‘ thinking spot’.

There were old pictures on the mantelpiece. Family trips to Dover. To Rome. To London. John asked if he could keep the one of a ten year old Sherlock on Baker Street. What were the odds?

He was so thin in these pictures. All bone. He was smiling a lot more in the younger ones than in the ones where he was probably around eighteen or nineteen. There had been two things he had promised himself not to talk about with Violet and Siger when he came. The addict years and how few friends Sherlock had. It had been hard enough hearing it from Sherlock himself in the dead of night, what didn’t feel like too long ago, when the warmth of John so close by the other man, who John had so wrongly believed to be a sociopath, let him bare his soul more completely than John would have ever thought possible. And what a wondrous, beautiful soul it was.

He went upstairs. In the upstairs hall there were more pictures. Baby Sherlock looked a lot like Athena and Artemis. There was another shot with what John thought was possibly the tiniest violin ever made. In another John noted the traces of a black eye.

Violet and Siger had told him they had kept the boys’ rooms almost as they were when the two had left for Uni. John had gone into Mycroft’s first. Neat, ordered. In the colors of his private school. Matching pennant hanging over the bed. A whole stack of medals. Trophies hastily piled in a corner. An entire set of Encyclopedias. Drawers which were labeled ‘Scientific Correspondence’, ‘Behavioral Studies’, ‘Clothes’, and ‘Experimental Data’. John laughed out loud. He might have known.

He turned and closed the door behind him, walking toward Sherlock’s and clutching the door handle. What would Sherlock have done if he had come here with him? He imagined that conversation.

“Oh there’s no reason for you to see that,”

“I’ll go in first, you know, tidy up a bit,”

“You really want to see? It’s boring stuff anyway,”

To which John would respond:

“There is so a reason, we're married!” he would say, smugly holding up the wedding band to Sherlock’s face.

“Right not falling for that one, you’ll tidy up when hell freezes over,”

“Of course I want to see, it’s a part of you, that could never be boring to me,” he would say, watching Sherlock redden slightly and have to kiss that ridiculous grin off of his face, that ridiculous look of surprise that someone actually loved _him_ that much.

He opened the door. And it took his breath away. Sherlock had taken many, many liberties with the décor. There was a perfectly drawn map of the area on one wall, Sherlock had labeled every place there had been a crime. On another he had drawn out various common chemical and biological structures. There was a microscope on the desk. The bed was pushed into a corner of the room. This room looked out over the street, just as Sherlock’s seat in the kitchen. There was a bookshelf in the opposite corner. The bottom shelf had several notebooks. Each had the word ‘My Deductions’ and the year inscribed on the front page. Sherlock had filled every page in every book, front to back.

John read some of them aloud to himself. Not realizing that tears had come to their eyes when they did. Sherlock had been in this room. Sherlock had written out these deductions. Held these books in his hands.

The last notebook was for the last year Sherlock had been at home. John flipped through it last, found that the last entries were actually dated with a different year. Possibly Sherlock had used them when he visited, for old time’s sake? From what he could remember Sherlock had only visited home once when he knew him. When Siger had had the cancer scare. He remembered him running around the flat in a frenzy. And he hated himself for being so surprised. It had been just a bit before they got together.  

“I know what you’re thinking, don’t bother hiding it,” Sherlock had accused sharply as he paced about.

“I’m sorry, alright, I know it’s a really rough time,” John had said gently.

“It’s my father John,” Sherlock had said with uncharacteristic earnestness, “It’s my father. And he could die. And I…I can’t do anything! I can’t save him. I’m just stuck here. It’s so frustrating!”

“Go,” John had said.

“Why should I go? They would be surprised. You’re surprised too. That I care. This much. It’s humiliating,” Sherlock stopped his rapid walking for a second.

“You know I was wrong to be surprised, just because you don’t show it, doesn’t mean you’re not capable of a great depth of emotion,” John pointed out.

“You think I should go?”

“If you think he’s dying, and I’m praying that he’s okay, and I’m not saying that anything’s going to happen, but if it does and you didn’t go to see him you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,”

“I haven’t seen him since, since—“

“He’ll have forgiven you, Sherlock, that’s what parents do,”

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked suddenly, sitting down beside him.

“What do I think about what?”

“Death? What happens to people?” Sherlock asked innocently, he never asked questions like this.

“What do you think?”

“Well,” Sherlock began, “Logically the corpse decays, I could tell you the precise process but its probably irrelevant, they go into nonbeing. That’s what we see. They simply cease to exist. But that’s one conclusion based on some of the data. We don’t know the other side. It’s hardly the only conclusion.”

“You believe in ghosts? You?”

“Not ghosts. Not spirits. I just don’t think people can just snap out of existence. Rationally speaking you can’t completely support any rationale for what happens after death. And when that happens, as rarely as it does…You do have license to believe whatever you’re emotionally inclined too. In fact I’d say this is one of the only cases where there is no absolute conclusion available somewhere. All other problems do have one. It’s just a matter of getting it. Process of elimination. Data. More data.” Sherlock said this very quickly, not making eye contact with John.

It was the deepest conversation they had ever had. John was a tad bit shocked at the admission. That Sherlock Holmes of all people had said there was a problem that could not be answered with logic, and because it couldn’t be answered, he went with his heart?

“Then what are you emotionally inclined to believe?”

“We exist in some form as long as we’re remembered. Ideas, John. Ideas cannot decay,” Sherlock said.

John thought back to the statement now as he looked to the end pages of the last notebook. _As long as we’re remembered._ He looked at the last entry, the one Sherlock had made when he came to see his father.

_Not really a deduction. More of a mental note. John brought up an interest point to me back in London. If I don’t do this I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. There’s something else I’ll regret. When I’m going back I’m going to tell him. Let him know somehow. I suppose if I write it here it makes it official. I love him. I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, love John Hamish Watson._

He shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have read the stupid book and read the stupid line. Shouldn’t have let his heart skip a beat when he realized Sherlock had stood here, overlooking this street, and admitted to himself that he loved John for perhaps the first time. Sherlock’s warm hand had traced these letters on the page. _I love him_. What courage must that have taken?

John sat on the bed a few moments. _As long as we’re remembered. Ideas, John. Ideas cannot decay._ No, they can’t. He thought about the image that haunted his dreams. Sherlock’s body. Beneath the ground. Lying there still like Sherlock never had been in life. Decaying.

He put the book away, took one last look around and closed the door behind him. He walked downstairs, through the living room and out onto the deck.There was a tree back here too. He looked out onto the lake. Sherlock had apparently almost drowned in there once. What a morbid thought. What if he had? What if John had never met him? He would certainly be in a lot less pain now. But would that be worth it? Was the pain of losing Sherlock worth having known him? _Yes_. _Ideas, John._

John didn’t even realize when Violet came out to join him, “He carved his initials into that tree, I don’t know why, he said it was because it was something people did, people at school,”  

John went closer to the tree, a few meters into the yard, and watched as Violet turned and went back inside.

It was strange that Sherlock had wanted to carve his initials into the tree simply because that’s what people did. Maybe this was back in the time Sherlock had cared what people thought.

_S. H._

_+_

The plus was almost crossed out. So it looked as if a multiplication sign overlay it. Ah, Sherlock had wanted to write someone else’s initials under it. Because that’s what people did. But there hadn’t been anyone. There had never been anyone before him. Then later he had crossed it out because he thought it was stupid. Love and sentiment were stupid. And there still wasn’t anyone.

Well, John thought. Better late than never. Sherlock had had someone in the end. Someone who loved him more than anything. Someone who remembered him. And it was childish, in a way, what John was about to do, but he needed to do it. For Sherlock. For the young Sherlock who had wanted someone to love him. For the teenage Sherlock who had decided love was for fools. For his Sherlock who had loved him and died.

_S. H._

_+_

_J.W._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in canon S3 Mr. and Mrs. Holmes knew that his death was faked, but that liberty was taken.


	29. Wedding Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the date of the anniversary approaches, Sherlock reminisces on his and John's wedding day.

_Present day_

“Do you know what tomorrow is Athena?” Sherlock asked quietly, oddly pensive, sitting in his thinking pose.

“January 6th,” she answered automatically, “But that’s not what you were looking for, do you need Artemis?”

“No, she’s out with John, I-I require your assistance, you sure you don’t know what tomorrow is?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Athena raised one right back, “Wednesday,”

“It’s our wedding anniversary, of course you wouldn’t know, it’s not like he would talk about it or acknowledge it or anything, we agreed, no contact. No contact whatsoever. Being as it is the second most important day of our lives. You would think he would have made some indication over the years. But he was always good at hiding his emotions. No that’s me. No that’s us both—“ Sherlock rattled on.

“The second most important day of your lives…what’s the first?” Athena shushed him.

“It’s silly,” Sherlock looked away.

“Come on, out with it,”

“Ridiculously sentimental,”

“Even so, tell me,” she egged him on.

“Day you two were born,” Sherlock pointedly looked out the window, “Though I often wonder why. Incessant annoyances. Crying all night. Bad news for brain work.”

Athena laughed it off, “So you going to say anything about the anniversary or what?”

“That’s why I came to you,” Sherlock confessed, “Do you think I should?”

“Well you two aren’t really the most _mushy_ type. You don’t declare your feelings to each other on a regular basis. In fact you’re bickering more than you’re nice to each other. I don’t know. You tell me. It has to be natural,” Athena reasoned.

“Would it help if I told you about the wedding? Maybe that’ll give you some context. You can tell me what to do,”

“No conclusions without data,”

“Exactly,”

***

_The Day of the Wedding_

It was six in the morning. John had gone out the night before, his last night as a bachelor, with some mates in the pub, come home late and slept in his own bed. After the wedding Sherlock was planning to move all his stuff up here. Leaving his room free for…well John had wanted it to be a guest room. But Sherlock being Sherlock had insisted on making it a laboratory. If John had any idea it would eventually become the nursery he would never have approved of the amount of arsenic Sherlock would store there. Among other things. If he had any idea that he would eventually divorce this man he was marrying, the love of his life, and that the room would eventually go back to being Sherlock’s, and that this one he had just woken up in would belong to one Artemis Holmes…well, perhaps it was for the better he hadn’t the gift for foresight.

He had asked Sherlock if he wanted a bachelor party for himself. Or you know. Any fun single person’s thing that interested him. The look he received in response was noteworthy to say the least. Sherlock was content to spend his final evening as Mr. Holmes with his previous spouse, the work. Which John thought was at least slightly fitting.

John heard the door open and close. Sherlock had left the flat. That was odd. But odd was Sherlock. He supposed if there were ever a chance for him to run, to back out of this, the moment was now. He turned over the thought for a second in his head, him dashing out of the flat in his pajamas, away from murder and mayhem, away from heads in the fridge and constantly being an inch from danger. But then he felt disgusted with himself. He imagined Sherlock’s face when he realized John was gone. The hurt. Just when he had finally trusted someone completely. To be so cheated. He would probably go back to his old ways. Never open himself up again. _I’m a high functioning sociopath_. _I don’t have friends!_ The defense mechanisms. John would never do that to him. John would never leave him. Ever.

And just because he had thought that horrible, despicable thought. If only for a second. John decided he had to make up for it. They had agreed to write their own vows. John had finished his a week ago. Nothing too sentimental of course. Just a quick few lines on how much their friendship had meant to him, and how he was glad it had become something more. He wasn’t really comfortable talking about how much Sherlock meant to him in front of other people. But now he changed his mind. Screw comfort. He would write something beautiful. Something amazing. Something extraordinary. In other words something _Sherlock._  

Sherlock returned home at 3 in the afternoon. The wedding was at 4:30. To say John was livid would be a vast understatement.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John sighed as he came in, “I really will kill you. If you had been late to our wedding…”

“You better use that name as often as you can in the next one and a half hours,” Sherlock said in his defense.

“Why…what do you mean?” John asked.

“You know a few weeks ago, when you asked me to take your name and I said of course not, because mine’s really famous and we had a row because I was a bit rude about it, and then really great make up sex?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled, “I do remember that actually, sometimes I think you agitate me purely so we can make up and have sex,”

“Only around 35% of the time,”

“I’m so relieved, really though, what were you doing?”

“I filed to get my name changed, tons of paperwork, had to see a judge, the transaction should be finalized, at the rate the bureaucracy works, around four thirty,”

“What did you change it to?”

“I was between Holmes-Watson and Watson-Holmes for an eternity, luckily I was standing in line for exactly that amount of time,”

“Wait, you were gone all morning, because you decided to take my name,”

“I just said that, haven’t you been listening?” Sherlock huffed.

“Ah, I can’t believe this, I was afraid, I don’t know…that you’d tensed up or you were anxious or maybe you’d changed your mind—“ John grasped him by the shoulders.

Sherlock looked legitimately confused, “Why would I change my mind? This is exactly what I want. You know I love getting what I want.”

“I suppose then, if it’s my last chance to kiss Sherlock Holmes,” John kissed him softly, slightly in disbelief at what Sherlock had done, “You’re really going to be Sherlock Watson-Holmes?”

“You deduced that,” Sherlock noted, “You know how it arouses me when you apply my methods, do we have time for a quick—“

“No,” John jolted upright, “It’s 3:30, you’re supposed to be all dressed and we’re driving down to the Church, and the rental car, and my god, you probably haven’t even packed for the honeymoon…and why are you still standing here?”

“Well I was hoping to shag my fiancé…”Sherlock said dejectedly, “But seeing as—“

“You can make _love_ to your _husband_ later,” John snapped, “Just hurry up, would you?”

“Yes, darling,” Sherlock said mockingly, “Whatever your desire, your wish is my co—“

“Sherlock,”

“Yes, yes, alright—“

Things John needed to make a mental note of: Sherlock could move alarmingly slowly when he was trying to irk John, he could also drive alarmingly fast to make up the time, also to irk John.

“You know if we drive any faster you might break the sound barrier,” John said through gritted teeth.

“Scientifically inaccurate, this engine can hardly produce speeds equivalent to a sonic boom,”

“Oh sure hit some pedestrians while you’re at it, I can picture it now, the headline tomorrow, _Newlyweds in Court for Running Over Somebody’s Grandmother_ ,”

“I know what I’m doing,” Sherlock insisted, veering to the left to avoid a cyclist.

John sighed, “You know the next time we’re back home we’ll be married,”

“I am aware,” Sherlock shifted the gears, “But it won’t _really_ change anything,”

“What do you mean? Of course it will, marriage changes people, the level of commitment, the—“

“John in that sense we’ve been married for years, I see this as just making it official,”

John didn’t have time to respond as Sherlock slammed the breaks and unlocked the doors, “Told you we’d be on time,”

“And I didn’t break my neck in the process, this must really be an auspicious day,” John got out of the car, bringing his vows out of his pocket and watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. God that man was infuriatingly hot. Even on this of all days. Seemingly oblivious to the cold. John of course, in his urgency to get Sherlock out of the house had forgot his own jacket. Thank goodness for a January afternoon is was on the warmer side. Still.

“Here,” Sherlock said, John found the Belstaff draped around his shoulders and Sherlock untied the scarf from his neck and tied it around John’s.

“Sherlock you don’t have to—“

“Don’t be like that John, you are my responsibility now, after all, without me we would have never gotten here on time,”

“Prat,”

“Fiance,” Sherlock grinned.

“My parents got married here,” John pointed out as they entered the Church.

“You’re sure they won’t come,” Sherlock said softly.

“I’m sure,”

“Harry’ll turn up though, I think,” Sherlock offered.

“I did go to her gay wedding, least she could do is come to mine,” John laughed, but he wished his parents weren’t so damn close minded, he wished they could be there too.

“Mycroft’s not here either,” Sherlock pointed out.

“What’s his excuse?”

“Didn’t give one, I didn’t ask for one, only invited him on your request to be honest, he doesn’t go in for this sort of thing,”

“You didn’t either, at some point,”

“I’m glad I do now,”

Before John knew it, it was 4:30. Light filtered in from the stained glass window. Casting light blues, and pale pinks, and soft greens all over Sherlock’s face. In that moment there were around thirty people besides them in the Church. He was sure Mrs. Hudson was crying. But in that moment he could only focus on one thing. All these people in the Church. All these things to look at. To observe. To deduce. And Sherlock had eyes only for him. No one else had ever looked at him like this. As if there was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the universe.

John hadn’t made a public speech in years, but he was a decent speaker, and after seeing Sherlock look at him like that he wasn’t nervous at all about what he was about to say, “When I first met you I thought you were mad. You kept petri dishes on the kitchen table and you kept fingers in the fridge. And I didn’t know whether I could keep up with you. Then we became friends. And I don’t know if I’ve told you this but maybe I should now…I…I was so alone and I owe you so much…I fell madly in love with you…that’s when I thought _I_ was going mad…because I didn’t know if you loved me the same way…but then you did…Now I don’t think you’re mad…I know you are, but I want to be mad together for the rest of our lives,”

Sherlock cleared his throat, but unlike John, he didn’t have any notes, “Um, I-I agree with those sentiments entirely—“ he coughed and John looked at him a bit quizzically, what was going on?

“W-what I love m-most about John is that he’s my friend also, and w-we’re definitely, d-definitely meant to be t-together,” he looked at John desperately and John understood, Sherlock had told him he had once stuttered, that the mind palace had fixed it, but John’s speech must have thrown him into overdrive.

“Let’s just exchange rings,” John looked at the preacher, who nodded.

Sherlock didn’t meet his eye as John put the ring on his finger and John felt Sherlock’s hands go strangely rigid as Sherlock put his ring on John’s finger. Even the kiss later felt rather awkward and stiff. Sherlock didn’t meet his gaze while they accepted various congratulations and heartfelt exclamations. And John knew when they drove back to the flat, because they hadn’t finished the honeymoon packing after all, that they would need to have a talk.

“Are you alright?” John asked as Sherlock flung himself down on the sofa.

“No,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Want to talk about it?”

“That was humiliating,” Sherlock sat up, “You know I read your other speech in advance so I would be prepared. So that _this_ wouldn’t happen. I haven’t stuttered like that in _years_.”

“So I married a mortal after all,” John sighed.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s okay, you got nervous, it happens, I’m still ridiculously happy that we’re married…how come you’re not?”

“You don’t care, you actually don’t care that you’re chained to a bumbling idiot for the rest of your life?”

“Is that what you think you sounded like?” John asked.

“Worse, perhaps,”

“You’ve never cared what people think, Sherlock,”

“It’s not that, I wanted to tell you so much, like the stuff you said about me, but _obviously_ I could not,”

“You could tell me now,” John suggested.

“That’s ridiculous,”

“Please,”

“No,”

“Come on,”

“You’re annoying,”

“You married me,” John retorted.

“F-fine, w-what I was going to say is—see it’s happening again!” Sherlock snapped.

“Just slow down,”  John said, “We have plenty of time. Till death do us part. Though the flight to Spain is leaving in an hour.”

“Then I suppose we don’t have time?”

“I was kidding, I can fuck you into oblivion on our wedding night just as well here as in Spain,”

“Right, then, what I was going to initially, before that unfortunate incident occurred, was that you are singularly invaluable to me. There’s a bond between us. Not like weak ionic attractions but the strength of a double, no a triple covalent bond. It would be highly illogical for me to ever be parted from you. So I never shall. And I wasn’t going to say this…in front of a room full of people. But seeing as now it’s just you…Y-you…g-gave me a reason to live.”

The kiss that followed more than made up for the awkward one up at the altar. And even though they had just put the feeling into words, the inexplicable attraction they felt for each other, what was left of it went into this kiss. For his part John stopped caring about being late for the flight to Spain. There was only Sherlock, his Sherlock, his _husband_ , he thought wonderfully. He stopped caring about time in general. He knew in his heart he could spend an eternity this way. And it would still be too short.

***

“That’s where we get it,” Athena said at the conclusion of his story.

“The stuttering thing? Yes, obviously,”

“It’s alright though, you’re also to thank for some seriously great hair,”

“I really don’t think the hair is that important in light of the great deductive genius I passed on,”

“Oh no it is, it really is,” Athena laughed, “Dad really enjoys your hair, and your purple shirt,”

“Maybe we should place limits on the things we can deduce about each other, for example—“

“Already got the sexual kinks, scarred for life, but I’m trying to move past it,”

“Hmmm, sorry about that, I really could do with knowing less particulars on what you were doing by the lake yesterday evening, but what can we really do?”

“I think you should do something special,” she said suddenly, “It was a happy memory. I’m sure he’ll know the day. He might wonder why you _don’t_ do anything special. Take some weird meaning out of it,”

“Alright I suppose I could get him a card—“

“Hold it,” she snapped, “A card won’t do, I know you’re afraid a big gesture will scare him off, but don’t worry about, leave it to me and my colleague,”

“Your colleague?”

“Artemis Holmes, I believe you’re familiar with her handiwork,”

“Yes, as you’re both _my_ handiwork,”

“Fair enough,”


	30. The One With The Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis and Athena's birth, like most things in Sherlock and John's life together, was unconventional.

“Are you going to do anything for the anniversary then?” Artemis asked John in the car.

“How did you—never mind, I don’t know if I should to be honest,” John turned on the right turn signal.

“It was the most important day of your lives,”

“No…it wasn’t,”

“Really?”

“The most important day, and I think he’d agree, was the day you two came into our lives, nothing’s quite been the same since…”

***

_Around 9 months before the Birth_

“So today’s the day Sherlock,” John nudged him awake in the morning.

“Ah yes, the day I get to jerk off in a private room, deposit specimen into a cup, combine them with those from your sister, and hope the embryos attach well to her uterus,” Sherlock sat up.

“That’s not how I would have put it…” John rubbed his eyes.

“I know, you would have said something like _starting the miracle of life_ but honestly John, you have to know the process,”

“You’re excited and you know it,” John smirked.

“This is better than serial suicides,”

“I knew you were a keeper,”

***

“Harry I really owe you for this, if there’s ever anything you need just let me—“ John said as they walked into the clinic.

“John I’m pushing your children out of my uterus, you will owe me _forever_ ,” Harry laughed.

“It’s quite the wedding gift, most people stick with fine china,” Sherlock pointed out, whilst John elbowed him in the ribs.

“It’s really nice of her to agree,” John glared at Sherlock, “If Mycroft had been a girl—“

“We still would have went with Harry, can you imagine raising a child that’s been incubated in Mycroft for nine months?” Sherlock reasoned.

“That’s true,” John admitted as he filled out paperwork, “So Sherlock, you can do your part, and then we’ll meet you—“

“My part,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Your euphemisms never cease to amuse me,”

“Just go you prat,”

“I’m going to carry this man’s children for nine months,” Harry sighed.

“Yes, isn’t it exciting?” Sherlock popped back in.

“Sherlock, would you just go jerk off already?” John exclaimed loudly.

“It’s perfectly alright,” Sherlock reassured a wide eyed nurse, “John just really wants to have babies with me,”

John sighed. This was going to be a long day.

***

“Think about it John,” Sherlock clasped his hands together, “In that petri dish are our children. Single cells. Oh what I couldn’t give to take a microscope and—“

“Sherlock, remember what we talked about was okay to talk about in doctor’s offices?”

“I see you’re going to be the disciplinarian,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, children have often remarked that their fun parent is the one who inspects cadavers and takes them into morgues,” John retorted.

“Mycroft and I requested many times but our parents would never take us,”

“Most children ask for a pony,” John laughed.

“A pony? Why would you want a pony? They poop too much, constantly require attention, sure they look cute but is that worth all the effort?” Sherlock asked.

“You realize we’re having children,”

“I’m willing to put in the required effort,”

“Awww, Sherlock,” Harry smiled.

“Do not awww Sherlock me,” Sherlock snapped.

“Hey I can do what I want, I’m renting out my vagina for you two,”

“Thank you, if it’s ever needed, John will be more than happy to rent out his penis for any needs you and your partner might have, I can assure you from personal experience it is an organ of the highest quality, as well as perfor—,”

“Sherlock,” John glared.

“Bit not good?”

***

_A few weeks later_

It worked. –JW

Oh thank god. –SH

Were you worried? –JW

No. Holmes children can thrive in any environment. –SH

I can’t tell if you’re serious or joking. –JW

What is it going to call us? –SH

It’s not an ‘it’, Sherlock. –JW

We are not yet aware of the sex. –SH

Call it the baby or something. –JW

Fine. –SH

What will our spawn call us? –SH

As endearing as that is. Please god don’t call it that. –JW

We can’t both be dad. –SH

We could be Papa and Daddy. –JW

No. –SH

What would you prefer? –JW

Can’t they just call us Sherlock and John? Everyone else does. –SH

That’s a bit unorthodox. What do you call your parents? Mother and father? –JW

Mummy and Dad actually. –SH

Oh right I forgot. That reminds me, I need to ask them for some more baby pictures of you. –JW

That’s highly unnecessary. You can be Dad, I’ll be the Consulting Dad, only one in the world. I invented the job. –SH

Sherlock. That’s a mouthful for a little kid. –JW

CD for short. –SH

You’re impossible. –JW

You married me. –SH

That can’t be used as a comeback for everything! –JW

Then why does it work so well? :p –SH

I can’t believe you just did that. –JW

CD strikes again. –SH

I hate you. –JW

I know. ;) –SH

***

_Two months later_

“I’m visiting Harry again, you want to come?” John asked.

“John this is the third time this week,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Sherlock our child is growing inside of her,”

“I know, I know that it is,”

“What’s wrong now? This _is_ what you want,” John looked at him quizzically.

“If you had married a woman, if you had married a woman she could have carried your child herself, you’re clearly missing that part of the experience,”

“Sherlock you are not sulking because you think I’m disappointed because I can’t get you pregnant, that’s nonsensical,”

“Well when you put it that way…but that’s not all I mean, just think about it, so we couldn’t get pregnant by ourselves, fine, but doesn’t a child need some sort of maternal figure? And what if it’s a girl what if we’re not able to…”

“Our baby doesn’t need a _mother_ Sherlock. But it will have maternal figures. There’s Mrs. Hudson. Who loves you like a son. Your mother. Harry. And I was thinking we should make Molly it’s godmother. She’s always been supportive of us. It’s going to be loved. By so many people. You can stop thinking so much. This child is going to be incredibly lucky. It’s going to have you.”

Sherlock paused, “You’re right John. And I really don’t want to be pregnant. Sounds tedious.”

“So I can go?”

“Hold on I’ll come with you,”

“You’re not talking to the fetus about murder again…”

“You don’t want me sharing our interests with our child?”

“No you can do that after it’s born, it’s Harry I’m worried about,”

“So I can discusses cases with the baby?”

“After it’s old enough to understand and not have nightmares sure,”

“What age is that?”

“For most people I’d say around sixteen, given that their _our_ children I’d say around ten,”

“Seven?”

“I’ll give you nine and a half,”

“Eight and no serial killers until ten,”

“Deal,”

***

_Day of the sonogram_

“So do we want to know?” John asked.

“Of course, more data is always better, but we’ve had a sonogram before this, why is this one special?”

“We get to know the sex of the baby this time,”

“What are you hoping for?” Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck.

“Maybe a boy?” John confessed, “Though it really doesn’t matter. You?”

“I think I told you before, I always imagined us having a girl, soft dark hair, or blonde, large eyes, asking way too many questions, crawling around this flat in some ridiculous pink dress Mrs. Hudson bought her,”

“You imagined us having children?”

“I imagined everything, long, long before anything ever happened,”

“What?”

“Well,” Sherlock said as they went down the stairs, “It’s pretty simple once you think about it, I imagined us getting married, then having kids, growing old, retiring and moving into the country, we could live in my parents’ house, I don’t think you’ve ever been, there’s a tree in the back the grandkids could come and climb, I almost drowned in the lake,”

“You thought about all of that? How come I didn’t notice that you were?”

“As always my dear Watson-Holmes, you see but you do not observe,”

***

_At the clinic, same day_

“I should be sister of the year,” Harry sighed.

“Look on the bright side, at least this insures you don’t have any alcohol,” Sherlock pointed out as John glared.

“Sorry,” Sherlock looked at the screen, waiting for the fuzzy images to appear.

“What took you two so long? You were nearly late,” Harry asked.

“Traffic,” Sherlock replied automatically.

“John you put your shirt on inside out,” Harry said.

“Sherlock you notice everything! You didn’t notice that!” John exclaimed.

“I was calculating arrival time very precisely based on current traffic conditions, if you had turned it the right side out we would have been late,” Sherlock explained, “Besides if you could keep your hands off of me this wouldn’t be a problem,”

“Yes, this is so my fault, Mr. I-dream-of-marrying-my-flatmate-and-having-kids-and-retiring-with-him-in-a-house-where-our-grandkids-can-climb-trees,” John rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” Sherlock retorted.

“Glad to see you two are still very much in love,” Harry cut in.

“Oh my god,” John said as the image of Harry’s uterus appeared on the screen in front of them.

“What? What’s happening?” Sherlock asked, not the expert for once.

“There isn’t just a baby in there,” John walked closer.

“What else could it be?” Harry snapped.

“No, there’s two,” he traced the outlines with his finger, “Two girls, I would say,”

“I’m carrying twins, this explains so much,” Harry sighed.

“We’re having…?” Sherlock said blankly.

“We’re having twins, Sherlock, aren’t you happy?” John stared at him worriedly, “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“Oh no I am,” Sherlock said, “It’s just. Oh, it’s Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Harry stared at him confusedly.

“It means he’s happy, it’s usually reserved for serial suicides,” John explained, “And now…this.”

***

_Three and a half months later_

“John, I think my water broke,” Harry said suddenly as she was sipping tea in the kitchen of 221B.

“What? It’s way too early for that, you’re estimated due date was—“

“It’s not too early,” she snapped, “As it’s quite conveniently happening now!”

“Just relax,” John said, “Sherlock get outside, hail a taxi, we’ll go to the hospital,”

A few minutes later they were driving down, Sherlock asking questions to a very agitated Harry.

“How exactly does it feel?”

“Where is the pain concentrated?”

“John would you please shut up your husband before I kill him?” she scrunched up her face in discomfort.

“Sherlock, would you please concentrate on something else?” John implored.

“Like what? Like the fact that traffics locked in place for several blocks? There’s been some sort of accident,”

“No, it can’t be blocked, these kids are coming now,” Harry looked out the window anxiously.

“I’m sure it’ll clear up in a minute,” John said reassuringly.

“Hardly likely,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,”

“It’s the truth!” Sherlock looked at her, “Harry are you sure you’re going to have the children now?”

“Yes, don’t I look like I’m sure?” she said, half-shouting.

“John I’m sure you’ve had the medical training necessary to—“

“It’s my sister!” he snapped.

“If there’s anything that’s going to be uncomfortable I’m sure you could ask me to—“ Sherlock started to say.

“Wait, you two are not going to deliver these children in the back of a cab!” she said anxiously.

“I don’t see many feasible alternatives, unless there are any other medical facilities in a few meters radius, which there are not,” Sherlock reasoned.

“I’m sure it’s not going to come to that,” Harry nodded to herself, “We don’t even live that far from the nearest hospital,”

“Yeah you’re right,” John laughed, “There’s no way,”

***

_A few minutes later_

“Harry you’ve just got to push a little bit more,” Sherlock said.

“John I am never doing a fucking favor for you ever again!” she dug her nails into the seat cushions.

“That’s the spirit, channel the hostility,” Sherlock said.

“Harry, you’re doing great,” John held onto her arm.

“Minor problem,” Sherlock said quietly.

“What? What more of a problem could there be with delivering twins in the back of a cab?” John asked.

“I can see the head, but what do we wrap the baby in when—“

“I have some headrest cushions covers,” the taxi driver offered.

“That works,” Sherlock said, “See this isn’t as bad as we—“

“Oh, my god!” Harry cried out.

“Almost there,” John said.

Sherlock had mentally prepared himself for many things in his life. The sudden surge in feeling from holding his eldest daughter for the first time was not one of them. Here was something that was unequivocally his. A perfectly useless blob in rational terms. Yet simultaneously the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in all his life. Something that meant him and John more than the identical gold bands on their hands. He was never one to feel so strongly. Let alone so much. She had his dark hair.

“Artemis,” he said as he wrapped her in the cushion covers.

Harry relaxed for a second, then tensed up again, “It’s twins, why did it have to be twins!”

“Could have been triplets—not the point right now,” Sherlock handed Artemis to John.

After another agonizing two minutes, Sherlock handed Athena to Harry, and watched Artemis in John’s arms. He was so happy. Sherlock had never seen him so happy. 

“If I wasn’t so mad at you, I’d say you two have the most beautiful children in the world,” Harry said as she held Athena.

“Traffic’s cleared up again,”

Harry let out a stream of curse words.

“And that children, is your Aunt Harry,” Sherlock smiled.

“We’ll save Uncle Mycroft for another day,” John looked at Artemis as she opened her eyes, Sherlock’s eyes.

“March 14th, 1:59 pm, and March 14th 2:01 pm,” Sherlock recited.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

John answered, passing Artemis back to Sherlock, “Two most important moments of our lives,”

***

_Present day_

“You delivered us in the back of a cab?” Artemis said, her mouth hanging open.

“Many of mine and Sherlock’s defining life moments have to do with cabs,”

“In a cab?”

“No one said it was a comfortable situation,”

“Then I’m the eldest,”

“By two minutes, not sure it counts,”

“Oh it counts alright,”

“Don’t think of us as completely irresponsible,” John said as he parked, “We did go to the hospital afterwards,”

“Still, in the back of a cab, that’s not normal,”

John laughed, “We never were,”


	31. The Ghost of Anniversaries Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to forgive and forget.

The first anniversary was perfect. As first anniversaries should be. That new, fresh, tingling feeling of togetherness still in the air. Both partners in love with being so in love with each other. John had woken up to the sound of the violin. When the piece was finished Sherlock had jumped on him and John had realized that Sherlock would unashamedly use these two days of the year, the anniversary and his birthday, to be as blatantly romantic as it was possible for him to be. Sherlock loathed cliché, so Valentine’s Day went by purposefully unacknowledged. But the last birthday Sherlock had gone around to every crime scene introducing himself as “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes,” had rented them a sports car and then willfully played out any and all super spy related fantasies John could have ever thought of, plus some more.

“Are there actual rose petals scattered on this bed?” John asked.

“Why not? You enjoyed it in Spain,”

“Ah, Spain,” John said, and the memory plus the weight of Sherlock on him now was able to stun him into silence.

The second anniversary was considerably more sober. They had kids now. So it was a different kind of happiness. Not the fiery orange associated with wild sex in the mornings and trips to Spain. But warm and yellow like gold. John had never before had the feeling that he had everything in the world. He woke up late on the anniversary and nudged Sherlock, but just as he was kissing him awake they heard crying.

“I’ll get it,” Sherlock said, but John followed him.

“It’s your parents’ anniversary today. Did you know that? Now normally the significance of arbitrary calendar dates escapes me. But there are always exceptions,” Sherlock held Athena and at the sound of his voice alone she quieted down.

John noticed Artemis stirring and picked her up. And there it was. Gold. Pure gold. This was everything he ever wanted. Sherlock, who he had wanted, and admired from afar for so, so long. A bit of excitement, which he got through their cases together, their lives solving crimes. The domesticity he had never thought a life with Sherlock could give him. Right here in London. With Sherlock’s and his children. If this was what pure happiness felt like. He never wanted to lose it.

The third anniversary John sat by the window, watching the people on the street. Going about their daily lives while he, a sad, desperate widower, imagined every second that Sherlock would come up behind him. Every second that went by he closed his eyes and he could almost imagine Sherlock’s touch at his shoulder.

“I’m right here, John, I’ve come back,” the ghostly Sherlock would say.

“You’re not alone John, I promised I’d never leave you, and I never lie,”

“John, why won’t you turn around? It’s obviously me. I’ve been here all along.”

And John would. John would turn around every time. And stare into the empty room. The vision and voice of Sherlock would vanish and he would cast his hand into the emptiness and shake his head to clear his stupid, addled mind. What a fool he had been to think he had forever.

Sherlock had been in Belgium at the time, closer to England and to John than at most points during his travels. Moriarty’s web had been concentrated in central Europe, where he had spent most of his time. But it was painfully ironic where he found himself now. He was in a random restaurant, disguised of course, eating Italian food alone. He saw little children at other tables. Thought of his own children, far, far away from him. His Artemis. His Athena. Did they miss him? Did they know him?

He had never been very good with children before having some of his own. Still really wasn’t the type. John was still the better parent in his opinion. Children were noisy. Annoying. But something made him go talk to the French woman at the neighboring table.

“Vos enfants sont adorables. Je ai des enfants de mon propre. Mais je ne peux pas être avec eux.* ” Sherlock said.

She had let him hold one of her twins, as the look in his eyes seemed oddly genuine, and as the baby laughed all he could think about was his own twins back home with John, of the life they should be having, the four of them together. It ached in his chest and he wondered if John, who had the twins, was faring any better. He at least knew John was still alive. But John couldn’t know. John wouldn’t know that he lived until this was finished. And when it was they would go home. Move out of Baker Street. Leave the cases and the crime and the masterminds and find a peaceful place where he could hold his own children. He had never been the kind of man to want that kind of life. He had scoffed at it. Spat on it. But now he yearned. Desperately. Oh, so desperately.

The anniversaries afterward when it had been Sherlock and Artemis he had made sure to give as little attention to the day’s significance as possible. He had packed the day full of cases, taking more clients than average. As Artemis grew up she had transitioned from sitting in his lap, to bouncing on his knee, to sitting in John’s chair clipboard in hand, to pacing in the way she had seen him often do while thinking. Clever as she was she had deduced from his expressions over the years that this day was important. And then they had had the talk. She had been thirteen at the time. Turning over her conclusion about the day for about a year, waiting for more data.

“It’s about him isn’t it? This day. The love of your life that left you,” she said as one of their clients left.

“I was wondering when you might get it,”

“Tell me about him. Why did he leave you?”

“I can’t tell you anything, and I must ask you not to go looking,” he said, and the unspoken please was in his eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me everything, and then I’ll delete it all before tomorrow,”

“How can I be certain that you will?” he asked.

“Obvious. Because I love you, Sherlock,”

At this he buried his face in his hands, “Oh. You are John’s daughter. So much, so much so.”

“You had me together?”

“Yes, we did everything together,”

“What was he like?”

“He was amazing, Artemis. He was amazing. He was a war hero. He was a doctor. An army doctor. He was funny and he was interesting. Oh, I wish you could talk to him now you would love him. And he, he loved you. That much I’m sure.”

“Why did he leave?” Artemis asked.

“He didn’t leave, I did,”

“Oh, I see, and then when you came back…”

“It was done,” Sherlock said bluntly and snapped his fingers, “Over. This. Today is our wedding anniversary. Imagine that. Me being married. I almost can’t now. It’s been so long. Almost.”

John and Athena danced around the day as well. Athena never addressed it directly, but she had a feeling it was important. John would come home from the station early. This was one of the few days where she had learned that it was acceptable to ask him about the war. The real war that she knew distracted him from the mental war that was associated with this day. And they would sit together on the sofa and he would rearrange some of the pencils and paperclips they had in the house to show her how it had been in Afghanistan. Where he had been where he had gotten shot. It wasn’t something he talked about with everyone. So she felt quite special. Quite close to him to when he told her the stories.

But one day. When she was thirteen years old. She noticed him slip.

He had been telling her something, and she had surprised him by deducing the rest of the positions of the squadron from his initial description, by guessing the set up of the cabin they had raided in the desert.

“Sherlock, for god’s sake, let _me_ tell the story,” he had laughed.  

Athena didn’t have the heart to tell him he had done it before. Rarely. Very rarely. But he had. Called her ‘Sherlock’ and not even noticed it. Usually after a particularly impressive deduction. But this time he had noticed it too.

“Forget that I said that,” John said quickly.

“No, I will in a minute, just, tell me about Sherlock first,” she demanded.

“He could delete things too,”

“Could he deduce?”

“That’s where you get it. He’s your father,” he said.

“You’re my father,”

“Biological. Um. You want to know about Sherlock? I was married to him. Smartest man I’d ever met.”

“Did you love him?” Athena asked.

“Yes,”

“What happened?”

“Everything. Everything and nothing,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she looked confused.

“I don’t know, Athena, I never knew why, just. Delete all that I told you about him. Please. For me.”

“Of course, just first. Just before I do tell me one last thing about Sherlock.”

“He loved you. I know he did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if it's obvious that I'm stalling. So I'll just tell you that I am. I have two mental directions of where this could go. Does anyone want to see a Moriarty-Moran child pop up soon? 
> 
> *The french thing Sherlock said means: Your children are adorable. I have kids of my own. But I can't be with them.


	32. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sherlock made the decision to fake his own death. And why.

_The day of the fall_

How fate had turned in the last couple of days. A month ago he had had everything in the world. The cases were better than ever. He had John. His kids. Prospects for the future. Then now. Him and John on the run. The slow breakdown of his reputation. Sherlock wasn’t used to losing. He wasn’t used to being maneuvered this way. Then last night, when he had seen the look in John’s eyes, he had just lost it. The thought that John could buy into this too, that John might doubt him, it was driving him mad. Now he had come the only place he thought he could end it. The only place he could get some answers, but so far the consulting criminal still seemed to have the upper hand. And Sherlock hated it.

He turned toward Moriarty at the edge of the roof, “I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.”

Jim rolled his eyes and sighed, “Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort.”

The detective turned away, pacing. There had to be a route out of this. There had to. He couldn’t jump. Even if he pulled off his plan he would have to trick John. Lie to him. Give him a lie that might destroy him. A lie they might never recover from. He could lose everything. No, there had to be another way. Something. Think of something. _Think_.

“Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?”  
At this Sherlock whirled around and grabbed him, looking him straight in the eyes, “You’re insane.”  
  
“You’re just getting that now?”  
Sherlock continued to hold him over the edge, but the madman was unperturbed, “Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive.”

The mad glint in Jim’s eyes told Sherlock that he meant exactly what he said, “Your babies will die if you don’t.”

He thought he had known true terror when he saw the red eyes of the hound. But that, that was nothing compared to this. He pictured them as he left them at home, peaceful, asleep, possibly mere inches from an assassin’s bullet. Sherlock had taken many murder cases before. He’d seen infanticide. But he’d been able to distance himself from the suffering, be clinical. Only now he couldn’t. The images flashed before his mind. The blood splattered across the crib. Identical bullet wounds on his identical twins. John’s body lying still over their cold corpses, because John would have tried to protect them. John would have given his life for theirs. Shielded them as best he could. All in vain. No, he couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

  
Jim’s sing-song voice taunted him and snapped him back to reality, “Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now.”

Sherlock let him go and Jim’s voice became lower, more serious, “Unless my people see you jump.”  
He went on, and with every word Sherlock’s blood boiled, “You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your kids will die. And such a shame too. I’ve seen them. So adorable. What are they a few months old now? Probably sleeping. They wouldn’t even wake up by the time the bullet reaches their—“

“Shut up!” Sherlock snarled, “Shut. Up.”

Jim smiled triumphantly, “That is precious, Sherlock. Do you _love_ them? Are you going to die for your little girls?”

“You don’t have any children do you?” Sherlock asked, clutching his head with agony. Think. _Think._ It was a last ditch effort, but there was no harm in trying.

Jim laughed, “Are you really doing this Sherlock? I expected better of you. Now. You’ve got an audience. Off you pop.”

He grinned manically, “Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. I’m certainly not gonna do it.”

Sherlock had had a good run with John, he thought. It was more than a person like him deserved. He was a magnet for trouble after all. Never really deserved the happy ending. And Moriarty, for all his madness, was right. Sherlock did love them. And he wouldn’t just die for them. He would walk through all seven circles of hell for them. Drown a thousand times in the deepest sea. Jumping off this roof, that was nothing. He would do it. For them. For John. He could be brave. He could fall.

Sherlock sighed, it was time, there was no other way, “Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?”  
  
“Please?” Sherlock added.  
  
Jim looked at him curiously, “Of course.”

But then the gears of Sherlock’s mind palace began to whir, he analyzed what Jim had said, and he found it, found the loophole, and all at once, he laughed and he laughed and he laughed.

“What?” Jim snapped around.  
“What is it?” Jim asked angrily, “What did I miss?”

Sherlock walked back from the edge, “You’re not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number. I don’t have to die ...if I’ve got you.”

“Oh! You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?”  
“Yes. So do you”  
“Sherlock, your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.”  
 “Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you,” Sherlock said darkly.  
  
Jim shook his head, “Naah. You talk big. Naah. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary – you’re on the side of the angels. You got married. You settled down. You spend your days pushing strollers. Probably dream of retiring with him in the country. Keeping bees or something like that. I know you Sherlock. You can’t do this.”

Sherlock didn’t let the other man know how hard that last bit had hurt him, “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”

“I think you’ve made your choice Sherlock,” Jim said silkily, “And I’ve made mine.”

Saying so he pulled out a gun and shot himself in the mouth. The shock of it was enough to send Sherlock into overdrive. Jim was dead. With him dead that left him with his other option. _He had actually killed himself._ That was not expected. The probability of that had been low. He had miscalculated. Sherlock had not understood how important it was for Moriarty to win. And now Moriarty would win. Sherlock was going to jump. He was going to jump for Artemis. For Athena. For John.

He pulled out his mobile, saw John approaching on the street below, saw John pick up, of course Moriarty had done it this way, so that John could see him die, “John? It’s me. Look up.”

John saw him, raised his hand up, as if reaching out to him, “What’s going on? I’m coming in.”

“No, no.” Sherlock said quickly, reaching his hand down in return, remembering the touch of John’s hands, the feel of his lips, his embrace, “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Stay right there. Would you do this for me? I…I can’t come down. We have to do it this way.”

“Sherlock, please,” John’s voice was breaking over the phone, and Sherlock knew the clock was ticking.

“I’m a fake,” Sherlock began, and it was harder to say than he ever imagined it would be, he knew this was the last conversation he would ever have with John for a while so he savored the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line, “I invented Moriarty. The newspapers are right.”

“No. No. Come on. When we met you knew all about my sister. I’ve lived with you. I married you. I know you’re for real. Why are you doing this?”

“I…I researched you. I wanted to impress you. I’m a liar. I’m not a genius,” Sherlock confessed.

“Well,” John said, “I don’t know why you’re saying that. But I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re not a genius that’s not why I fell in love with you. So if you could just come…just come down Sherlock. We can sort this all out. And then…we’ll go home.”

“We can’t go home,” Sherlock said, and he was glad at this distance John couldn’t tell that he was crying.

“It was a magic trick. It’s a magic trick. Tell Athena. Tell Artemis. Their father is a fraud,” he continued.

“Sherlock don’t do this. Sherlock. Please. I love you. I love you so much.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock pressed end call, took a few deep breaths, and thought of happier times, thought of the fact that his gravestone would read _Sherlock Watson-Holmes, Beloved husband and father_ , it was more than most people had, more than he thought he would ever have or deserved and he was lucky, very, very lucky.

John was shouting something from the ground, Sherlock couldn’t quite hear him. The wind pushed the flaps of his coat back, and he stepped closer to the ledge. There were more people on the ground now. He sent a quick text to Mycroft, the only one who could know if he did survive this as he planned. And he threw the phone aside, looking back at the blood streaming from the head of one James Moriarty before he took one more step closer to the ledge.

Sherlock took his final step, and looked down a final time before he jumped, “I love you too, John, more than this world. More than my life,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the sadness. Next chapter will be happier! Anniversary times.


	33. The Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock celebrate their anniversary. In the song that symbolizes their relationship that Sherlock wrote for John, I imagined it sounding much like the series' actual musical score. Especially the title sequence.

John had missed the little things. He had missed grabbing hold of Sherlock’s hand in the middle of a crowded street, a connection to his anchor in a churning ocean. He hadn’t forgotten, after so many years, the warmth of it, the strength of Sherlock’s grip. The first time it had happened it had surprised him how much security he got simply from that slight contact of palm to palm. It was probably because it allowed him to feel Sherlock there. To show the rest of the world that Sherlock was his and that Sherlock had someone that loved him and cared for him and would hold his hand in public.

He had missed watching Sherlock undress before bed, which despite what it might sound like was less sensual and more symbolic. Those perfectly tailored suits, those lovely collared shirts, that perfectly curled hair, that was armor against the rest of the world. But Sherlock unbuttoned for John, and was vulnerable to him like he was towards no one else.  

He had missed the nicknames, the terms, the endearments he had started to use after they had gotten together.

_Order takout, **love**. _

_Sorry Sarah, I can’t take that shift my **boyfriend** and I are going out for lunch_

_This is my **boyfriend** Sherlock Holmes_

_Sherlock Holmes, my **boyfriend**_

_It’s alright, **Buttercup** , I’ll find you a case_

_Stop sulking **honey bun**_

_I’ll play Cluedo with you, please talk to me, Sherlock, **baby**_

_I’ll apologize for calling you baby **darling**_

_Then what do I call you **muffin**?_

_My **fiancé** didn’t mean to offend you_

_My **fiancé** and I were running late, sorry _

_My **husband** and I don’t think this case is worth our time_

_Order takout will you **husband**?_

_Will **the father of my children** please cease putting fingers in the microwave?_

John had missed the pillow talk, which was far more domestic than John had ever imagined Sherlock ever being. The strangest things came up. They could talk about the most deep, complex topic. The existence of a higher power for instance. Or make the most idiotic comments imaginable. Puns about the crime scenes they had gone to that day.

John had missed learning all the small things about Sherlock. The detective put product in his hair to get his curls to look like that. He liked sleeping on his side. He had sensitive hair follicles. Most erogenous region (besides the obvious): his neck. He couldn’t sleep with socks on. He didn’t like ice cream except for the flavor mint chocolate chip, which he would have in liberal amounts. He occasionally took  showers to mull over points for a case, and he liked the water to be hot, John found it almost scalding. He was a dog person, and had once had a special one named Redbeard. He was allergic to pecans. He preferred white chocolate. He liked being the little spoon. He liked being kissed goodnight.

He had missed the peaceful expression on Sherlock’s face as he slept. What was he dreaming about? John loved waking up and feeling their shared warmth. Just sleeping together He remembered the first time it had happened, after they had done it in the bed for the first time.

He remembered that Sherlock had asked, “Do I stay? Can I stay with you? I can go if you want.”

And it had hurt. Physically hurt, to see the emotions cycle in Sherlock’s eyes. Joy, ecstasy because he had just been with John. Confusion because he didn’t know how John would reply. Deep, deep rooted sadness and disappointment because he feared John would say no. And this naked, colossal desperation, this tremendous want that John should say yes. John could see it in those wide blue eyes. They stared at him. Implored him. _I don’t deserve for you to want me but I need you to and I know you might not but I’m happy I at least have this._ John didn’t know what to say.

He had kissed Sherlock’s face. His eyelids. His nose. His cheeks. His forehead and then his mouth, “You stay with me. Always. Do you understand what that means?”

Sherlock had nodded, and John had sworn to himself that if he accomplished anything in his life he would make sure Sherlock had no reason to doubt that ever, ever again.

John had missed parenting with him. The things they only shared with each other. Only Sherlock knew Athena’s favorite picture book. How to tell the twins apart. When Artemis liked to be fed. Only Sherlock was with him when he had freaked about the germs Athena might have ingested when she put her toe in her mouth. Only Sherlock had laughed when a diaperless Artemis fresh from her bath had peed on an unsuspecting John, flashing him a toothless grin. Only Sherlock woke up at ungodly hours of the night and let John sleep some of the times, letting John slip into the nursery a few minutes later and watch him rocking each twin in turn. Only Sherlock had been there for the great baby shampoo fiasco, where Athena had accidentally swallowed some while they were giving them their baths and John had wanted to drive to the hospital. Sherlock alone had left the most promising case they had gotten in weeks when John had texted him that Artemis hadn’t stopped crying for an hour despite everything John had tried. He had raced home, took her in his arms and burped her, and John had expected an earful about having called him all this way. But Sherlock had said nothing. Nothing at all.

It was the little things that John had missed. But the more he thought about it, they weren’t little at all.

***

“That was cheeky of her,” John said over lunch at the local café.

“No it wasn’t, it was perfectly reasonable,”

“Looking in my _cold_ case files to find one for us to solve? Cold means I’ve run out of leads. And she had the nerve to think that just because you’re back that we could—“ John’s tone was serious, but he was only just holding back from laughing.

“We did solve it, relatively quickly too,” Sherlock pointed out, smirking.

“Don’t smirk,” John snapped.

“Oh I insist, besides, what are you going to do about it?”

“Let’s not start that now,” John said, “The girls have something else planned for today.”

“At what point do we inform them it’s not exactly expected for children to organize their parents’ anniversaries?” Sherlock asked.

“When it stops being fun,” John answered.

“This is PG-13 fun, we should be having rated R fun, American movie lingo for you, I’m acclimatizing,”

“Since when is murder PG-13?”

“For us it was more like PG-5 anyway,” Sherlock pointed out.

“If things had gone your way all violent crime would have been PG-2,”

“How was the crime scene, Sherlock, you look smug, so you solved it, took you longer than I thought it would to head to the factory outside of town,” Artemis arrived next to their table.

“Stuck in traffic,” Sherlock explained.

“You took the interstate, traffic was negligible, I knew you would use that excuse,” Athena smiled.

“Have children you said, they will fill you life with joy you said,” Sherlock grumbled at John.

“You’re enjoying yourself and you know it,” Artemis laughed, “I have a scavenger hunt for you,”

***

“They’ve done their research,” Sherlock remarked, impressed.

“I know,” John smiled, “Nice touch, with the pink phone and the dog kennel and the Italian restaurant and the cab driver we had to talk to,”

“Last thing then, we’re heading North here, clue says ‘Why started to fall in love’,”

“That would take us to the pharmacy,” John said, confused, “Why would we go there?”

“Artemis,” Sherlock answered.

“Sorry?”

“Artemis knows me better than I know myself, she knows I fell in love with you the second you shot the cabbie, at that same instant, I was about to take that pill, Athena knows you, she knows you fell in love with me the second your limp began to go away, Athena knows I was an addict as well, and she knows you suffer from PTSD, and that was also an integral part into why we fell for each other, therefore pharmacy,”

“I think what you’re trying to say is that Artemis and Athena think our relationship motto song is _Your love is my drug_ ”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Athena used to like Ke$ha, played in the radio all the time, reminded me of you,” John explained.

“What other American pop songs remind you of me?” Sherlock asked teasingly.

“I’m not answering that,”

“Come on,”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. Um. What is there? Teenage Dream? Maybe?”

“ _Teenage Dream?_ ” Sherlock scoffed, “The one Athena put on in the car that starts with ‘You think I’m pretty without any makeup on.’ “

“I’m not saying every line applies to us,” John retorted, “I’m sorry I even told you,”

“Don’t be, um, I have one too,”

“One what?”

“A song, that reminds me of us,”

“Seriously? Well, what is it?”

“Shall We Dance, Rodgers and Hammerstein, 1951, it was one of a hundred or so love songs I listened to when I was writing ours, I was trying to figure out what makes them all so timeless, common denominator, so to speak,” Sherlock said as they walked.

“Figure it out?” John said.

“There was none,” Sherlock paused, “Which was a realization in itself profound,”

“Each was significant for its own separate reason, because each love is different,”

“Come into that music shop with me,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Why?”

“Artemis knew I would pick the pharmacy and pass this store on the way, all the violins in there are hung a certain way except one, she’s changed it just slightly,”

They dashed inside, the store was nearly empty. The violin was towards the back. And under it there was a cassette player.

As Sherlock looked over the violin’s failing to find anything of interest, John smiled at having gotten the trick faster, and pressed play.

“Damn,” Sherlock said, but as soon as he heard the music any frustration for having been fooled was gone.

“Our song,” John reached out tentatively to Sherlock, “She’s playing. May I have this dance?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and they didn’t care that they were in a public place too much, because he was vaguely sure Athena had bribed the owner or cleared out the place some way anyway.

John laid his head on Sherlock’s chest and put his arms around his neck and he appreciated the fact that the song somehow kept beat with Sherlock’s heartbeat. That was not a coincidence.

“It’s impressive that your resting heart rate is the same as it was twenty years ago, that is the beat you gave the song isn’t it?” John remarked.

“Excellent deduction,” Sherlock murmured.

“How do you do it?” John asked, “Do you work out? Not mentally, I mean,”

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, and John understood, he didn’t have to talk, he didn’t have to cover up this melody that bringing him closer and closer to Sherlock, like an asteroid caught in the Sun’s gravitational pull.

He let himself feel Sherlock so close and he heard the notes of the song. It was them. It was perfectly them. Just as he had remembered it. Themed from the beginning of their acquaintance to their marriage. The first case. The adrenaline. Quick, staccato notes. Moriarty’s game, dramatic picking up of speed. Loud. Irene’s theme. Soft. Sensual. Sherlock’s theme, a truly individual sort of melody that was inexplicably Sherlock. Them finally getting together. Confidence. Victory. A climax. Just as John remembered.

But the song went on. John hadn’t heard this part before. It was now a duet, there were two synchronous melodies. There were two people playing. It was a childlike theme. Bouncy. Emphasizing innocence. Then it quieted. And the next few minutes were heavy. Piano and pianissimo at points. Brief climaxes. And ultimately the second voice stopped playing, one melody dominated. It began to weaken until it was sharply cut off. Then after sixteen seconds silence John heard it start up again. Sherlock’s theme. Then the theme of them finally getting together from the original.

“Amazing,” was the only thing John could think of to say.

“She finished it,” Sherlock seemed shocked, “Athena was the second melody,”

“It’s incredible,”

“It’s genius,”

“Two melodies, our twins,”

“That segment in between, the fall,”

“Return to old themes, where we are now,” John continued.

“The big question,” Sherlock said.

John wasn’t ready for this. He really wasn’t. Did they have to talk about it now?

“Who’s rendition is better Artemis’ or mine?” Sherlock smiled.

 _Oh_. Oh.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock said without missing a beat, “Undoubtedly, my daughter’s is superior,”

“Oh, sweetheart,” John adored the fact that he could admit that.

“Don’t call me that,” Sherlock blushed.

“I’ll do whatever I please,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible part 2 in the works. Do feel free to look up the Shall We Dance song, I was listening to it on my ipod and was reminded of Johnlock, then again few love songs don't. What song do you think is the quintessential Johnlock song?


	34. Kharkov, Ukraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another look into the time Sherlock was away from home.

_13 months after the fall_

Sherlock didn’t know how many times they beat him. The pain numbed his senses and somewhere after the fifty seventh lash across his bare back he had lost count. His hands were tied to two wooden posts to his side, and if anyone with even a vague religious inclination had come across the sight they would have been reminded of a crucifixion. As it was, the two men keeping him here were as far from being men of god as it was possible to be. Sherlock considered himself a man of great mental strength, but even he was having a hard time fighting the urge to simply beg them to end it. They hit him again. And rivulets of blood shot out of the existing scar with which the whip made contact. If he hadn’t been gagged he would have screamed. He didn’t know if he could make it. He had been discovered in the compound near Kharkov, Ukraine early this morning, which was a shame, as it had made sure Sebastian Moran, the last of Moriarty’s network, had a chance to flee. Well, not much of a chance, as Mycroft’s men had the exits of the city manned, and Sherlock’s discovery was simply a catalyst for the rat to leave the sinking ship. Now he simply had to wait a few hours for Mycroft to procure his extraction. It shouldn’t be too long. Mycroft was never tardy.

But he couldn’t bear to think of Mycroft right now. Not when his head was already throbbing and he felt like he wanted to throw up but his empty stomach wouldn’t allow it and he was simply thrown into fits of dry retching as they beat him again and again.

They spoke to him in Russian, which he understood.

_Who do you work for?_

_Tell us who you work for and we’ll spare your miserable life._

_You useless piece of bile, talk or we’ll rip the skin clean off your bones._

On a better day Sherlock would have passed to tell them that it wasn’t actually possible to do that. As under the dermal skin layer was a whole network of muscular tissue before getting to the bone. But as it was he had an ache in just about every part of his body. An ache so painful that he wondered if this was what it felt like to be on fire.

_Who do you work for?_

Sherlock wondered if he should just tell them. But no. Telling them would endanger the whole mission. And once he talked who knew what else he might say. He couldn’t endanger John. John was the only thing he could imagine that provided him relief. John’s eyes, so wide, so open, so full of caring for him. John’s hair, graying now but so soft to the touch. John’s soft, perfectly kissable mouth. John’s voice, his reassuring tone. John’s style of walking. John’s orderliness, a carryover from his military days. John’s steady Doctor’s hands.

He remembered all the things he had loved about John, and felt the blaze of torture die down. He saw John’s face in his mind and forgot the extremities of physical pain.

He loved the way John touched him. Never too little and never too much. In the morning’s before the twins were born John would get up early to go for work. Sherlock would still be asleep. But on the days when John’s movements around woke him he would pretend to be asleep anyway. Because John would go downstairs and dress up, ready his briefcase, and then come back upstairs for no real reason at all. Sherlock would hear John come in and kiss him on the forehead, sometimes getting his curly hair instead, and there was nothing else quite like the quietly smug sensation that passed through him. It was the fact that John didn’t need to do that. For all he knew Sherlock was asleep. But he did it anyway. Kissing Sherlock goodbye was just as natural to him as locking the door when he left. And Sherlock loved it.

He loved John’s dedication to their children. Reading stories. Reciting nursery rhymes over and over again. Sherlock had all but outlawed baby talk so John took to absentmindedly explaining things to them. The news. What had happened today. He loved putting them down for their naps, being able to look at John and be thrilled at the fact that he and their children could make John this happy. He loved watching John dress them up. Artemis in pink. Athena in blue. For individuality. Or sometimes both in red. Because the frocks were just too adorable. He never really went in for that. The tiny shoes and the barrettes John put on them. But he loved it anyway. Because it made his children look so loved. So cared for. And Sherlock knew that’s exactly what John meant by it.

He loved the regularity of John’s routines. On the weekends, when they woke up together he loved the efficiency with which he saw John getting ready, going down, making breakfast. The unchangeable order in which he did it: splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth, then mouthwash and spitting it out in the sink. John’s insistence that they watch film classics on Thursday nights when they played on television. His Wednesday night blogging hour, when Sherlock was neither permitted to read over his shoulder or make any interruptions. Tea at regular intervals of the day. No sugar. Never. Unless Sherlock was having some too.

Sherlock loved the little things John did. Sitting on the sofa while Sherlock sat on the floor Saturday morning and towel drying Sherlock’s hair himself. Sliding just a bit closer to Sherlock whenever they saw somebody from his past, making sure they saw the flash of the matching wedding rings. Sherlock knew it was because of the encounter with Sebastian Wilkes, how John still remembered that he had corrected Sherlock’s assertion of _friend_ to _colleague_. And now John wanted to make sure that in the future everyone would know Sherlock as singularly the most important person to him in the world. He loved the way John hid his cigarettes. The way John made him eat.

He loved John’s body. Well-muscled in places but soft in others. The first time he had seen him naked in the clear light of day he had marveled at the scar. Tangible proof that John was a hero, that John had gone to war and survived. It sent a shiver down his spine. He knew what would have happened had the bullet hit only a few inches to the left. John would not have come back at all. So he had asked John if he could touch that scar, kiss it, because it was the proof that John had been injured but had not died. That John had come back and lived.

He loved the things John said. On those occasions when he could see Sherlock working in a frenzy he had a line he always said. One that managed to calm him down no matter the situation. _It’ll be alright, Sherlock. I’ll take care of you._ He secretly loved (despite his outward frustrations) the endearments John gave him. _Lov_ e. That was a common one, sprinkled into conversation like a kind of sugar. _My boyfriend_. That gave him a sudden surge of satisfaction when he was introduced like that. _My fiancé_ was even better. _My husband_ was fantastic. But the best one was _sweetheart_. The very idea that someone could consider Sherlock their sweetheart? He didn’t want to enjoy it. But he really, really did.

Mad craving for nicotine?

_No, Sherlock. You’re better than this. It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you._

My mind is working on overdrive.

_Just relax. I’ll take care of you._

Bored. Bored. Bored. I might as well shoot the wall.

_I’ll give you something to do, if you could just think straight a minute. It’s fine, Sherlock. I’ll take care of you._

Everyone believes him, Moriarty, because he has a good story, I-I don’t know how we can get out of this-he’s a spider, he’s everywhere, he’s—

_I believe you, Sherlock. I do. I’ll take care of you._

And the one time he had said it to John. He had been woken in the middle of the night by John’s thrashing and when he sat up he saw John was sitting up in the bed too. His forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. His eyes wide, he had been crying. A nightmare. A nightmare of the war. In all times past Sherlock had learned it was good policy to go back to sleep. John didn’t like to be seen like this. But he was shaking this time.

“John,” Sherlock had said simply.

“Leave me alone, go back to bed, Sherlock please,”

But despite John’s protests, Sherlock had pulled John to him, running his hand down his back and feeling John cry into his shirt. Sherlock had never actually seen John cry before. He wasn’t the type to show pain that way. This dream must have been really, really bad.

After a few minutes of silence John spoke, “I can’t stop seeing it, I can’t stop, I see it, I see it when I close my eyes, please, make it stop,”

“Do you want me to play something for you?” Sherlock offered, not knowing what to do.

“No, I need—“ John started but couldn’t finish, yet Sherlock understood, he could not get up to play the violin, because John needed Sherlock to stay just as he was, right here.

“I could tell you a story,” Sherlock said, “That’s potentially distracting.”

“Okay,”

“When I was little I used to stutter,” he began slowly, “It wasn’t bad unless I was around a lot of other people. But around lots of people it was terribly embarrassing. So at school I didn’t speak at all. This is where it’s get interesting. All my teachers were convinced I was completely mute. So when the other students made their original oratory projects I was exempted. I wasn’t really made aware of the fact however, so I wrote up my own speech and presented it at the function with all our parents in attendance, accidentally revealing three affairs within the teaching staff, outing the headmaster as a lesbian and disclosing the fact that our music teacher smoked marijuana in the process,”

“That’s hilarious,”

“Mummy didn’t think so,” Sherlock went on, “She hid my pirate costume for a week,”

“Your what now?”

“Um. You can’t of course tell anyone about this. Well, Mycroft already knows, but I have the pictures of him when he used to be fat to blackmail him for that. I used to dress up as a pirate and brandish a wooden sword.”

“Really? Now I need pictures,”

“I’ll show you,” Sherlock said gently, relieved that John seemed distracted enough from whatever he had been seeing.

“Sherlock, what am I going to do, I don’t think I can ever go to sleep again, I don’t want to relive that again,” John whispered.

The words came out of his mouth so easily he didn’t even have to think about them, “Just talk to me, you’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me. And I’ll take care of you,”

John’s embrace. John’s presence by his side. Falling asleep on the sofa, waking up with his head on John’s lap. John’s reactions to his deductions. _Amazing. Fantastic. Brilliant_.

Only a few moments more. Then Mycroft would come for him. John believed that Sherlock was like a sun that he orbited. But Sherlock didn’t believe that was true. Quite the opposite. He would willingly revolve around John a hundred, no a thousand times. John was the sun. John was the center. Mycroft would come for him. Only a few moments more. Mycroft would come for him. And Sherlock would regain the universe.

That wasn’t of course, what happened. Sherlock could still remember his last plea.

He had gotten down on his knees, which still pained terribly from Kharkov. He had folded his hands, and John had looked away.

“Don’t leave, please,” Sherlock had implored, and then his voice had almost cracked as he had said, "P-please, J-John, t-take care of me,”

Silence had come later. As horrifying as the shouting between them before. Then Sherlock had closed his eyes. Not wanting to see it. Not wanting to commit to memory the sight of John leaving his life forever.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. He heard John hesitate while turning the knob. He heard the hard finality of the close of the door. He almost wished it had been slammed shut.

Sherlock waited for a few minutes. Waited. Hoped. Prayed. That John would come back. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be the end of it all. And then, just then, he wished for a single second that he could have just died in Kharkov.  


	35. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis meets someone.

Artemis couldn’t drink the punch. It was too tangy and fruity first of all, and secondly from the behavior of those who had drank it and its taste she had quickly surmised it was spiked with alcohol. Figures. She didn’t actually know why she had agreed to come with Athena to this party. It was too loud. She didn’t like fast dancing. She didn’t know American pop music. The only people she knew only talked to her because she was the celebrated long lost British twin of Boston’s princess. As if Athena Watson couldn’t be cool enough, Artemis thought to herself, now she had a backstory worthy of being featured on MTV, a TV channel she had been hearing a lot about. Artemis herself of course favored the BBC. That and CBS, which aired her favorite show, _60 Minutes_. None of these people had ever heard of it.

In the typical manner of her parents, they had avoided the problem of re-formalizing their relationship a bit longer by suggesting that Artemis simply go to school here for a while, if that was alright. As she had no dying need to go back to her old school, where she was sure she wasn’t sorely missed, it had been a fine idea, theoretically. All her credits transferred. In fact she had already taken most of the courses Athena was in now, having rather zealously skipped ahead when she could. As a result she had signed up for some bullshit courses in the arts and languages to occupy her time. She had never tried her hand at sculpture or Japanese, so now she could.

The first day back had been interesting. They had told their story what felt like a million times. How they didn’t know they were twins, how they found each other, how they got here. And by the end of it Artemis found she didn’t really want to speak again. Which was disappointing to most.

It was amazing, Artemis thought. Having been an only child all these years she was unused to sharing her space at home with another girl. Athena took forever in the mornings. She straightened her curly hair and wore dark eye makeup and jeans with tears in it.

Afterwards they had gone out to the garage, to Athena’s baby, the black motorcycle on which they rode to school. Artemis found it all a bit weird. Holding on to Athena and digging her nails into her side when they came abruptly to a stop at the intersection.

“I am licensed you now,” Athena said, “You don’t have to worry. Besides. I let you wear the helmet.”

“Even so,” Artemis yelped as they started off again.

 Boys in their cars rolled down the windows and whistled. To Artemis’ utter shock, Athena yelled things back to them. Athena gave the finger to a man who cut her off. Athena cursed when they hit three red lights in a row. All of a sudden, in this public environment Artemis realized she didn’t really know who her sister was…

When they had first met they had obviously been different. But unlike when she met most new people Artemis had been very comfortable with Athena. And likewise Athena had felt a connection. They had banded together over Sherlock and John. They had talked about things Artemis didn’t really talk about with anyone else. About their lives, things that had happened to them, how it felt like growing up with a constantly racing mind.

But when Athena got off that motorcycle at school, took off that helmet, shook out her hair and flashed a winning smile and a wink at half the student body gawking at her, Artemis realized. She and her sister had nothing in common. Athena used everything she had to her fullest advantage. She was thinner than Artemis, more well muscled. When they changed together Artemis had noted that her abs were rock hard. She had a smile for everyone. Different smiles. Coy. Secretive. Cheeky. Cold. Intimidating. Flirty. My god.

Eyes turned in the halls to look at her, to look at that smooth shiny hair and that glittering smile. Athena walked with the air of an attractive person who knew exactly how unfairly hot they were. Artemis on the other hand was a fish out of water. She had bumped into people, been mistaken for Athena who knew how many times, stumbled over introductions.

For her part Athena had tried to be helpful. She had found people to direct Artemis to all of her classes, called her over at lunch, introduced her to everyone as _my lovely and talented sister_. This was a great boost, as Athena was clearly a rockstar, Artemis could at least be some sort of backup dancer here.

There was a general outcry over them at first. At her accent. At her hair. Athena had pointed out a few of her ex boyfriends to make sure they didn’t try anything on Artemis. They didn’t. The glasses and the plaid skirt and white collared blouse probably put them off that idea.

She collected various textbooks throughout the day. Japanese had one. Theatre, surprisingly, did also. She had been directly promoted to first chair violin and to the highest orchestra the school offered. Upon hearing her solo Mrs. Zimmerman had actually cried. So that was a victory.

Afterwards they had gone home. Artemis had chosen to ride the school bus back rather than the bike, claiming to feel a bit dizzy. She had done some of her homework using her legs as a desk, finished the rest immediately upon coming home whilst Athena chatted on the phone. John was still at work. Having gone there after a particularly successful anniversary the night before. Sherlock was out of the house doing god only knew what.

Artemis paged through the Japanese textbook. Watched an hour of youtube videos. Looked up the language roots. But then she stopped. At this rate she would be fluent in a week. She had to take the class an entire semester. What a bother.

“Bored?” Athena asked.  

“Yes,” Artemis admitted.

“Come to the party with me,” Athena suggested.

“I don’t like parties.”

“It’ll be fun. I promise.”

“You said the motorcycle was fun.”

“Takes a bit of getting used to, dad doesn’t like it either.”

“What’s this party for?”

“What do you mean?” Athena asked.

“What are we celebrating?”

Athena laughed about five minutes over this, “You don’t have to parties to celebrate things. It’s not like a birthday party.”

“Then why _do_ you have parties?”

“Just to hang out, live a little on the edge, go crazy,” Athena supplied.

“I see,” Artemis said.

“How was school today?”

“Adequate.”

“Where you going to college next year?”

“I’m taking a gap year,” Artemis explained, “It’s necessary.”

“Okay,” Athena got up, “I’m going to the gym. Be back soon. You want to come?”

“No, I’m fine here.”

“Okay.”

Thinking all of this over in her head Artemis again considered the punch. Considered the people around her. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit.

“Wary of Athena’s kingdom already?” a boy asked.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” she turned abruptly.

“Ignatius Owen Ulysses,” he extended his hand.

“That’s quite a mouthful.”

“My friends call me Jimmy, understandably.”

“Does that make me a friend?”

“If you want to be.”

“Are you flirting?” she looked at him curiously, “I should warn you, I don’t know how.”

“If I wanted that, I would have tried it with her,” he gestured to Athena in the corner, kissing a boy Artemis had never seen before, one who she was sure she would never see again.

“How do I know you haven’t already?”

“You seem the perceptive type. If I had, you’d know.”

“What do you want then?”

“Conversation? You’ve never just talked to someone simply to talk to them.”

She sighed, “You’re being naive. No one does that. There’s always an ulterior motive. People calculate whether they know it or not. It’s man’s very nature to be crippling manipulative.”

“Is it? What happened to you that was so bad that you lost faith in the entire human race?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, “I was born cynical.”

“Then what do _you_ think I’m after?”

“It’s easy isn’t it? Only girl alone at a party. Approached by boy who seems to understand her. They have an instant connection. Go for a walk in the dark. Bond over something. Perhaps he shares something intimately personal with her or she with him and then they feel emotionally in sync. Step one. Step two follows naturally afterward. He’s the only one who appreciates her gifts. Makes her feel _special_. God I hate that word. It’s patronizing to the extreme. But yes. That’s step two. Step three is the victory. Boy gets the girl who was to weak to realize that she doesn’t need the approval of men to be validated.” Artemis ranted, hoping this would be enough to put off this kid.

“How you loathe cliché.”

“If it were possible I would wipe it from the face of the Earth.”

“Let me guess, everytime you read a story, you know how it ends.” He poured punch into a glass and drank someone.

“Yes. You know that’s been spiked don’t you?”

“Of course I know. But I’m drinking it anyway.” He took a sip.

“Doesn’t that make you an idiot?”

“Yes and no. If I have too much, drive home, and die in a car wreck then yes I’m an idiot. But if I do not, then what harm was there really?”

“That’s the most useless rationale I’ve ever heard.”

“Bad metaphor. Let’s try again. You don’t want to be the special girl right?”

“Yes. I abhor it. As I have said.” She pointed out.

“What if you’re not the special one?”

“Excuse me?” Artemis asked.

“I know your skill. You could look around this room and tell me the life stories of everyone in it. Impressive. But me? I can hack into any government computer network. I can parade the secrets of the United Nations, NATO, the United Kingdom out in the public eye. I can disable entire countries. I have a gift. Now you tell me, aren’t I the special one?”

“No, you’re a criminal.”

“You say that but I’ve piqued your interest. You want to see the hacking. You want to see the command center.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to break the firewall protecting the National Security Council, and I need your help.”

“How do you know I can help you?”

“Today at school. I heard you play the violin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a hidden clue in this chapter. Let me know if you find it. Or if you require a hint. I thought it was rather obvious.


	36. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally learns what happened to Sherlock in the missing year.

“Where are they?” Sherlock asked.

“Some party,” John said, “I know it’s a school night but Athena keeps her grades up and I trust her not to do anything stupid.”

“Is that really wise?”

“What do you mean?” John asked, “She’s fine. I’ve always made sure she’s fine. Do I worry about her? Constantly. Is there anything more I can do? No. Have I tried? Of course. She’s a teenager. She’ll grow out of it.”

“I’m not saying it’s in your hands,” Sherlock said, “It’s just. You know where those tendencies can lead. Me for example.”

“No.” John said, “I don’t think so. Not her.”

“Either way,” Sherlock sat next to him on the sofa, “Artemis shouldn’t have gone.”

“New experience. She can take care of herself.”

“I know that. But it’s a lot for her. School. Then this.”

“You can’t protect her forever,” John pointed out gently.

“John, I thought it was alright at first. I really did. But some of Athena’s tendencies are worrying me.”

“Sherlock, she’ll be fine. She’s not going to turn to—well she’s not going to do what you did.”

“Who can say? Just. Do something. Please. You have to.”

“It’s not really your call,” John said, and then instantly regretted it.

Sherlock got up suddenly, “Right. Of course not. She’s not _really_ my daughter anymore is she? Because I left? How long, John? How long are you going to hold this against me?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. But technically, we’re still divorced. We don’t have joint custody. Do we want that? When are we going to talk about it? I really don’t want to talk about it.” John said and regretted it again, my he was really on a roll today.

“Oh so you would prefer this weird, odd limbo we have going on here. Nothing’s for certain but it’s fine for now so why not continue!”

“That doesn’t sound so bad, yeah,”

“Well, as long as we are fighting, let me tell you this. Artemis is the way you were in medical school. I know. From what you’ve told me. Less talkative. A bit more closed off. But it’s the same deal. Studious. Careful. Steady. Steady is the key word. Athena is not. You don’t think she’s going to turn out like me but she’s the spitting image of me. She craves the high, the attention, the stimulation. And she’s very, very close now.”

“You don’t know her like I do, she won’t,”

“You don’t think I know her?” Sherlock asked testily.

“How could you? You weren’t here.”

“It always comes back to that with you doesn’t it? When do I get released from this debt, John please. Tell me. I can’t live like this. You constantly holding that over me.”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s unfair of me. But you have to understand—“

“What’s there to understand? I was gone. I left. There’s nothing I can do about that. And you never let me finish. It hurt me too John. Emotionally yes, it did. But also physically. I never told you did I? I was whipped in Kharkov. Waterboarded in Munich. Held over a bridge in Cancun.”

“Oh my god.” John put his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong John? Does that interfere with your recollection of this with you as the victim? He was going to _kill_ you John. He said, and I quote ‘I will kill you and your babies and your husband if you don’t fucking jump off this fucking building.’ “

“I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry, Sherlock.” For the second time in his life, Sherlock was seeing him cry.

“John—“ Sherlock reached out.

“Don’t, just. Let’s just calm down for a bit. We’re too old to be yelling like this. Like children.”

“I’ve always been childish.” Sherlock offered.

“I went back to the tree by your parents’ house,” John began, “The one you put your initials in, I added mine. I read your old notebooks. And after you came back I felt sorry for myself. For having to go through that I didn’t even consider what kind of horrors you saw abroad.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I was exaggerating about the torture.”

“Take off your shirt, Sherlock.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock tensed.

“Your shirt. I’ve noticed since we got back together. Or got back to whatever this is and we’ve slept together you’ve always kept it on. Now I think I know why.”

“I didn’t want you to stay with me out of pity.” Sherlock explained.

“You’ve been holding this pain with you for a long while. Let me hold it for you.”

“I’d rather not.”

“There’s no one home.”

“You sure?” Sherlock asked, “You’ll never be able to look at me the same way again. And you’ll probably lose any appetite you might have for food.”

“What exactly were you doing in Ukraine?”

“Towards the end, tracking Moriarty’s right hand man,” Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt, “Got caught. You can imagine. They weren’t too terribly happy.”

“They can’t torture a British citizen.”

“They can. Especially if the citizen in question is legally dead, which I was,” Sherlock got to the last button, “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

“You’re so beautiful, Sherlock, nothing’s going to change that.” John said quietly.

“You do it then.”

Sherlock sat down in front of him, gulping as John eased the fabric over his shoulders. Waiting for the inevitable derision. John said nothing for a while. He was shocked. Reddish lines crisscrossed Sherlock’s back, places where the broken skin had never quite healed. They must have been scarlet and burning once. He must have been soaked in blood. John’s heart sank. He remembered the last thing Sherlock had asked him before he left. _Take care of me_. Oh my god.

“Do you understand now? Do you understand now why I never told you? Never showed you?”

“Does Artemis know?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, “She knows.”

“I hurt you. I hurt you so much.”

“I hurt you too John.”

“What can I do?”

“Would you—would you still make love to me like this?” Sherlock was glad he was sitting with his back to John, not wanting to look him in the eyes, see his revulsion.

“Sherlock,” John reached his arms around his waist and kissed the nape of his neck, “I never liked you because of the way you looked like, I liked the way you looked like because I liked you,”

“Ah, you said something like that the day of the fall, I didn’t think you were completely serious,”

“I was telling you the truth, I don’t love you because you’re a genius, if that were true I could have fallen for Mycroft, who’s technically smarter. No. It’s you. It’s just you,” John said as he kissed the scar on his shoulder.

“Really?”

“It’s always been you, sweetheart,”


	37. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

Sherlock had done it once in an alleyway near a crack den. In a deserted hallway at Uni. Back of a car. He had been quite voracious once. Victor had called him insatiable. And he was. He had done it the most times with Victor. They weren’t actually going out at the time. Or ever for that matter. The kissing involved was minimal. Sherlock was quickly utilized, rather efficiently too, and then they would go back to class where Professor Trevor would lecture as if he hadn’t just been having graphic sex with his most prodigious student. Yes, _Professor_ Trevor. Just one of many bad decisions of the time.

Over the years he had become quite good at quite a many things. He could do it both ways, though he did have an inherent preference for one. It was a natural consequence of having such a great learning curve. He didn’t even have to do it too many times to be good. But he had. And he was excellent.

For a while it seemed like that might even be a lucrative side career. Prostitution to pay for the cocaine. What could possibly go wrong? He had started the cocaine first however, and Mycroft had put an end to that before the other idea ever truly came to fruition. Thank god. There were a few questionable times that Sherlock remembered Professor Trevor introducing him to a colleague, giving him a few drinks and having him end up in bed with him. Well not really a bed, Sherlock never made it to beds. For his own dignity he liked to pretend it wasn’t what it was. After all, he had needs too and it was fulfilling them. But the cocaine being the sad, desperate cry that it was for his brother to come and breathe some new life into him, it was clearly a lie.

Irene had miscalculated when she had thought him a virgin. Seen his aversion to sex and mistaken it for inexperience.  Oh no. He didn’t dislike sex because he had never done it. He disliked it because he had had too much of it. It reminded him of the sad, derelict creature he had been becoming. It reminded him of his own crippling weakness. No, if he had wanted to _he_ could have had Irene on the table in 221B until she begged for mercy. He was that good. But he hadn’t been in love with Irene. And he had made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t do it again until he was. If that.

So he didn’t know how to explain it to John, when they would snog on the sofa, and they would get close to doing something more, or they would both be hard and then Sherlock would just quit. It was really hard to explain without going into detail about his past history with it. Which he didn’t want to do. At least just yet. But John, as expected was a tad bit confused. Understanding. But confused.

“You clearly want to. But you don’t. And keep in mind, it’s okay with me if we don’t. I just would like to figure it out.” John said.

“Make a deduction,” Sherlock said, “I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

“You’re a virgin. You always shy away when things get heated.”

“Ha,” Sherlock snorted.

“That’s surprising. Okay. So you’re not. Um. Are you asexual? That’s a thing. I’ll respect it if it’s your thing.”

“Not my thing no,” Sherlock answered.

“I give up,”

“If only I were as zealous as you in my pursuit of the truth I would make a fine detective,” Sherlock laughed.

“Sherlock, when you were younger—“

“Not molested, no.”

“Is there anything weird down there?”

“Honestly, John.”

“Hey, I’m not going to judge.”

“There is nothing _weird_ down there I don’t want you to see. What kinds of things were you imagining? A second penis?” Sherlock shook his head disparagingly.

“I’m imagining it now. So thanks for that.” John sighed, “Um. Do you have. Um. Performance issues?”

“No.”

“I officially hang up my hat.”

“Thank goodness.”

***

For all his spectacular willpower however, one shopping trip during which John sassed the store clerk was enough to bring Sherlock’s resolve to nil. He loved John’s sarcasm. He got off on it. When they got home he pinned him to the wall and attacked his mouth and soon they were breathing against each other, delighting in the friction and the heat, and Sherlock really, really wanted to shag him into oblivion.

“Sarcasm? Really? _That’s_ your kink?” John asked.

“Among others,” Sherlock admitted, nuzzling into John’s neck.

John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, eased him out of his trousers, and he was sure, he was sure Sherlock had finally snapped out of whatever it was stopping them from doing this. But as often happened when John was dead sure, and looking forward to something, he was wrong.

Sherlock had pulled John’s jumper over his head, and was about to do the same thing with his white undershirt, but suddenly stopped moving, drew back from the kiss and sat down against the wall, “I-I can’t.”

John sat down next to him by the stairs, this was an unexpected turn, “What exactly can you not?”

“Sex. I can’t. It’s not good for me.”

“Who is the last person you did it with?” John asked, he was going to get to the bottom of this problem, if he and Sherlock had to sit by the stairs in their underwear until they did, so be it.

“Last one I remember?”

“You’ve had sex with people you don’t remember?” John asked.

“Well yes,”

“Okay. Last one you remember.”

“Have you read _Unexpected Uses for Radioctivity in the Modern Age_?”

“Yes, I thumb through it everyday,”

“Don’t be coy, um. My chemistry professor at Uni wrote it.”

“Okay.”

“He was the last person I remember.” Sherlock confessed.

“How old was he?” John asked.

“Good twenty years older than me. At least.”

“Wow.”

“Shut up. So I had sex with a teacher. I’m sure you’ve done…things.”

“I know I have a reputation that says otherwise, but I’ve only done it with a handful of people.” John admitted.

“You’re joking, all women?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“Who was the first?”

“Clara Atwell.”

“No. Wait. Clara. Harry’s Clara? You’ve had sex with a lesbian?”

“I was dating her when she met Harry,” John explained.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock snickered, as John glared, “I’m sorry. I really am. But John. Really?”

“Hey I’m not the reason we’re sitting here by the stairs.”

“John, you said we didn’t have to. If that isn’t true—“

“It is true. I’m sorry, okay. Here, let’s get you dressed again. We can forget this ever happened. Go out to eat later. Talk about the case.”

“I don’t want to forget,” Sherlock said suddenly, “I-I’ve just had this idea in my head. That if I ever did it again it’d be different. Different than it was.”

“You. You actually want it done properly.”

“Yes. Isn’t it funny?” he asked bitterly.

“It’s not funny.”

“Clara thing was though.”

“Tonight, Sherlock. I’ll take you out to dinner. We’ll come back home. And then we’ll go up to my bedroom. We’ll do it the right way. Not like this.”

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded, “Okay.”

***

“Is that why you don’t go to class reunions?” John asked as he took a bite of pasta.

“That is one of several reasons,”

“I don’t understand how that came about,” John confessed.

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Sherlock said bluntly, “I wasn’t going to mention it at all to be honest. But you would never have cracked it on your own.”

“You’re right about that.”

“I am seldom wrong.”

***

At the end they walked home instead of taking a cab. John as always was perturbed by the fact that Sherlock’s pace was always the slightest bit faster. Stupid long legs.

“I wonder what Irene would say if she knew the truth,” John remarked.

“She would be surprised. She might also be surprised that we finally got together,” Sherlock answered thoughtfully, slowing down slightly to accommodate John and taking his hand.

“It was about damn time, if you ask me, how long would we have kept dancing around each other anyway?”

“An eternity. Communication is not a personal forte for either of us.”

“Now that would have been inexcusable.” John laughed.

“A real crime,”

“But you love crime.”

“Not always.”

***

“Why not my bedroom?” Sherlock asked.

“Chemicals,” John explained.

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, “Wouldn’t want that. There are enough fluids involved as it is.”

“You’re not very good at sexy talk are you?” John asked.

“Talk? No. There was never very much talk,” Sherlock confessed.

John looked a bit shocked. But said nothing.

“Forget him. I want you to forget him and forget everyone that ever came before when I kiss you,” John said, leaning over Sherlock on the bed and kissing him.

Sherlock kissed back, carding his fingers through John’s soft hair, noting easily how different this was to Victor’s edgy, almost utilitarian foreplay—if it could even be called that. But no, John had said to forget Victor. Just forget him. And in some ways it was easy. John’s hands were so warm, his touch was so gentle, maybe because on some level he knew—Sherlock had been touched countless times before, but never like this. Never by someone who genuinely cared for him.

It was going well for a while. John didn’t feel Sherlock tensing under him like he had before. Quite the opposite in fact, Sherlock was clearly hard for him, and when they were finally naked and John was kissing his bare chest, stroking his hard cock, groping his fine arse—as if he hadn’t fantasized about that a hundred times—Sherlock actually moaned with pleasure and John was sure he hadn’t heard a sexier sound in his life.  But then, the inevitable. A split second of fear flashed in Sherlock’s eyes and John knew he couldn’t just continue. But it dawned on him, just then, what the problem was.

Trevor had never spoken to him. Trevor had never even bothered kissing him before they did the deed. Sherlock had been objectified. And used. And he couldn’t let that happen to himself again.

“I love you,” John said, he had never said the three words before, never to Sherlock certainly, but never to any past boyfriend or girlfriend either. He had thought it would be hard, to get to the point where he could just say it, communication issues and all, but Sherlock needed to hear it, and it felt easy, it felt _right_ to say that to Sherlock.

“You do?”

“Yes,”

That night Sherlock did not think of Victor Trevor again.

***

John had convinced Sherlock to stay the night. He had wanted Sherlock to feel how wanted he was. To see, besides the undeniable proof their coupling had made on the sheets, how perfectly they fit together. Was it uncomfortable to have six feet of a thin, gangly person winding their limbs over you in the night? Perhaps. Was Sherlock the most courteous sleeper? No. But that didn’t matter. That didn’t matter at all.

“Say it again,” Sherlock said upon waking up.

“Say what again?”

“The thing,”

“Do you like it Sherlock?” John teased.

“John, say it,”

“That’s not exactly fair, you have to say nice things to me too,”

“What should I say?” Sherlock asked.

“Be creative,”

“I am yours John, _body_ and soul,”

“That’s exactly right,” John said, “Add _that_ to your mind palace why don’t you.”

“John,”

“Yes, Sherlock,”

“Please,”

“I love you,” John pulled him into his arms.

“Again please,”

“Again? As in repeated?”

“That is what again means yes,”

“I love you,” John kissed his forehead.

“John,”

“I love you,”

“That wasn’t it this time,”

“Bugger, what was it?”

“You’re my best friend,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many of you guessed, Ignatius Owen Ulysses is in fact a reference to IOU. And yes, he is Jim's son.


	38. Girls and Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls don't know each other as well as they think they do.

“Athena?” Chris snapped, “Are you even awake?”

Athena opened her eyes to the bright lights of the Calculus classroom, “Oh yeah, totally. Um. Repeat the question.”

“Nevermind, Eric Westman wanted your number though, could you tell these guys I’m not your secretary?” Chris asked.

“Eric Westman?” Athena shook her head.

“You don’t remember him do you? You made out with him yesterday,” Chris pointed out, “Big. Red hair. Junior on the football team.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.”

He snapped again, “Hey. Don’t doze off. We have a project due.”

“I’m freezing,” she complained drowsily, “My head hurts too. I had the punch.”

“You’re the one who spiked the punch,” He pulled his own sweatshirt over his head, “What are you going to do next year, without me?”

“Dad thinks I should take you with me, Chris, you’re the only one of my friends he likes, thinks I should date you, then marry you, and live happily ever…” she wore his sweatshirt and nodded off a bit.

“I thought we agreed that’s never going to happen, I’m not your type,”

“Parents can dream,”

***

The next week at school was a drag. Athena could feel Artemis watching her, growing more and more distant. Spending time out of the house. She had no idea why. Artemis had no interest in Athena and her friends. No interest in the parties. The games. The gossip. Seemed fair enough. It must not have been easy living in a town where one’s twin was Queen Bee. For that matter none of Athena’s friends cared to much for Artemis either. She didn’t let them say anything, but from the things they whispered to each other she gathered they thought of the other Watson-Holmes girl as a killjoy, acting perpetually as if she had a stick up her butt. Athena hated to admit this, but deep down she felt a bit of resentment towards her more mature, sophisticated behaving sister. John and Sherlock never asked _her_ where she had gone when she broke curfew. They didn’t ask her to empty out her pockets for possible cigarettes. But no matter. At school it was different. School was Athena’s domain. Or so she thought.

“Athena?” Chris asked as they walked to her motorcycle together, “Could I ask you a favor?”

She raised an eyebrow, “Okay.”

“Could you introduce me to your sister?”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s weird. I know it’s weird. But I really like her.” He explained.

“When did you meet her?”

“You introduced me,” he said, “At the party you barely remember. And we have Japanese together.”

“It’s not weird to you that she looks exactly like me, your best friend.”

“When did I say you were my best friend?” Chris asked.

“The years of single minded devotion and tolerance of my crap sort of lead me to that assumption.”

“Okay. Am I yours?” he asked interestedly.

“Publically no, you’re too low profile. The others think of you as my charity case. Privately, yes. I must admit. You’ve really been here for a ton of crap. I’m _your_ charity case.” She explained.

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me to my face.”

“Cherish that. I don’t normally say nice things to guys.”

“I know. You give them lap dances and then they ask _me_ for your number.”

“You like her, then?” Athena looked at him curiously, considering his thin figure, pale skin, wiry glasses and white blonde hair, wondering whether Artemis would go for this.

“I really, really do,”

“I’ll set something up,” Athena suddenly smirked, “At least this finally settles one thing. You _do_ find me attractive.”

“Just don’t tell her everything you know about me just yet.”

“Oh? But she would love hearing about the leprechaun incident. The fourth grade spelling bee fiasco. Not to mention sophomore year homecoming.”

“Hey I could spin tales about you too. The New Years party. You’ll never live that down Athena Jane Watson.”

“It’s a deal then. You keep quiet, Christopher Marius Peterson, and so will I. And I’ll try my best to set you up with my identical twin sister.”

“Wear the helmet.” He said as she got on the bike.

“Oh you are perfect for Arty,”

***

Athena it seemed, however, had gotten her sister’s type completely wrong. There was nothing wrong, inherently with thin, kind, blonde Chris. Who was for all intents and purposes a very good kid, extremely clever too. But he was nothing. He wasn’t nearly as clever as the boy that sat before Artemis disassembling a hard drive. The boy who had built all of these six computers in the basement from scratch. Connected them to form a network together that had enough processing power to be a real threat to every government agency he would want to tackle. Using this much data, it was a miracle he hadn’t been caught. Artemis should have been scared, the first time after the party when she came down here, but it was enthralling. He spoke in riddles when he spoke at all. And then in 0s and 1s to the machines.

Artemis herself was adept at several programming languages. She had taught herself C, C++, Java, Python, Ruby and the .NET framework. She had taken online software courses from Oxford in her free time. So when she saw the thousands and thousands of lines of code that Jimmy had written she knew their tremendous power. Computer crime. The next great threat. And in order to solve such crimes, one had to think like a criminal.

“This is marvelous,” she confessed.

“So you admit then? Your talents are wasted solving crime?” he laughed.

“Not wasted, no. People like me live to catch people like you.”

“Oh but you could never catch me,” he smiled, and it was simultaneously the most frightening and most attractive thing she had ever seen.

She was about to reply but looked down at her phone to see a text from Athena. That was odd.

_I found someone for you. –AW_

_Not interested. –AH_

_Please, he’s a friend and he likes you. –AW_

_This is his picture. [image attached] –AW_

_You date him then. –AH_

_Not my type. –AW_

_Mine then? –AH_

_Yes. I think so. –AW_

_Are you busy? –AW_

_No. –AH_

_I’ll do it. –AH_

_I’ll meet the kid. –AH_

“Problem?” Jim asked.

“No,” Artemis replied, “I’m humoring my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning a few of the upcoming chapters might be a bit more Athena/Artemis centric. Don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.


	39. Meeting Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's last action before the return.

_14 months after the fall_

_Normandy, France_

“Finally found you,” Sherlock strode in, cringing slightly as the wounds on his back still hurt, in his hand he held a gun, “What are you doing here? Playing house?”

“You cannot kill me,” the man said desperately, “I’m begging you.”

“Begging wouldn’t have saved them, Moran. My family. You were there both times. You were the sniper at the pool. The hired gun who was going to kill my children,” Sherlock said coldly.

“I wasn’t going to kill them, the children. I’m not a monster. I wouldn’t have done it.” Moran said.

“You’re unarmed, you make no move to attack me,” Sherlock looked around the room, “This is a nursery. What’s in that crib?”

“Mycroft’s men are with you, I am not a genius but I am not stupid, Mr. Holmes,” Moran stood up defiantly.

“I asked him, I asked him up on that roof if he had any children and he did not answer me,” a look of revelation passed through Sherlock’s eyes, “And he said. He said before. _I should get myself a live-in_ _one_. And he did! Oh this is good. This is too good. If I was myself I might actually be enjoying this but as it is, I’m tired, and I’m angry.”

“You wouldn’t kill a child, Mr. Holmes,” Moran said calmly, “You don’t have it in you.”

“He did,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“I didn’t. I had the shot. I saw his last text. I knew he was going to kill himself. I was angry. I could have taken that shot anyway. Even though you’d jumped. I didn’t,” Moran explained.

“And you believe I should let you off scot free for all your other crimes because you had the decency not to murder my children in cold blood,” Sherlock scoffed, “That’s amusing to me.”

“What are you going to do with me? If you get rid of me the boy will have nothing.” Moran plead.

“You’re going to go to prison for a very long time, and in prison you’re going to talk to some very persuasive people, give them names, and dates and everything they ask for,” Sherlock said silkily.

“He was right you know,” Moran said nastily, “You two are just alike.”

“No,” Sherlock walked over to the crib and looked at the sleeping kid within it, “I’m on the side of the angels.”

_Child Services Office, London, UK, Application for Transfer to Boston, MA, USA_

_LEGAL NAME: Ignatius Owen Ulysses_

_FILE CODE: 1895_

_DOB: Unknown_

_BLOOD TYPE: B+_

_TEMPORARY GUARDIAN: Mycroft Holmes, EMPLOYER: MI6, HOME ADDRESS: Classified_

_AUTHORIZATION: GIVEN_

_BIRTH FATHER: James Moriarty (deceased)_

_BIRTH MOTHER: Irene Adler (deceased)_

_STATUS: Signed, CONDITION: Processed_

***

_Is it done? –SH_

_Yes. But_ _the boy, you do believe he won’t be trouble. –MH_

_Evil is not born it’s made. –SH_

_I disagree. –MH_

_This child is no danger to me, and I will not interfere in its life. –SH_

_Well, if you’re sure. –MH_

_Moran was right, I do not have it in me to hurt children. -SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some context.


	40. Athena's Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athena tries to set her sister up.

“He’s a bore,” Artemis said bluntly.

“You’ve only spoken to him once, give it another go, and he’s not boring,” Athena retorted a touch defensively.

“Yeah, okay, why don’t you date him again if you like him so much? Don’t push him on me if he’s not interesting enough for you,” Artemis asked.

“He’s not a bore, and I don’t want to fucking hear you say that again, I don’t like him, not that way,” Athena admitted.

“Right, I’m sorry, but why go to all this trouble then, for his sake? With me?”

Athena thought about it.

***

Athena remembered the third grade. The roll call. All bright eyed jumping little children except one. She was already Queen Bee. Then silence when the name ‘Chris Peterson’ was called after ‘Sally Perez’. He didn’t talk. No one knew why. Some said he didn’t know how. That he was stupid. As a consequence he was quickly unpopular, as children of that age could be crueler even that adults. To make it worse, he was fat.

But Athena knew. She had deduced it and confirmed it with John. Chris wasn’t stupid at all. That wasn’t the reason why he couldn’t talk. He could. She was sure, if she got him going on a subject he liked that he wouldn’t shut up. It was because of his sister. Little Mary Peterson, all of four years old, who was sick, very sick, from a disease that Athena knew more about than anyone her age—leukemia.

He did talk. She had found that out herself by being incessantly annoying to him. The first thing he had said to her had been ‘Shut up’. But it had gotten better from there. He liked bugs. He liked cars. He could draw better than she could. He could be funny. She had begun to enjoy his company so much that she had deduced for him. Shown him her special gift that she shared with no one. She had asked him if it was ‘too weird’ and he had just said ‘No’. Which was more than she got from most people. The popular girls with their fancy haircuts and bags and dolls had naturally asked her, “Why do you talk to the fat kid?”

She had said to them, “I don’t know.” But she did know. He was her friend.

The Petersons had moved to Vermont the next year for a special treatment that might save Mary. Athena knew this because Chris was worried, very worried. It showed up on his fair, round face, the way he scratched at his white blonde hair. And on days on which he was particularly worried she would show off for him, and he would get distracted.

The Petersons didn’t move back until the 7th grade. Athena already had her first boyfriend. She was already a soccer star. She hadn’t thought about him. When he had sat down in front of her in Algebra she hadn’t recognized him. He had gotten so thin. He wore glasses now. He still didn’t talk much.

People whispered about him, wondered how he had gotten so thin. They wondered if he had done drugs. Wondered whether he was clinically depressed. There were rumors, so many rumors about what might have happened to him. He didn’t bother to correct them. But only Athena knew, because he had told her the reason he came back. Mary Peterson was dead.

Athena had a great many friends. A posse. Practically a fan club. So she had used her power to quiet the things they said about him. And they had started talking again and it felt nice to have a real friend for a change. But she didn’t tell him that. She didn’t want him to think that he owed her anything.

He only really talked about what had happened to Mary the one time. About the last days he had been in the hospital in Vermont. He had apologized after for crying, and crying, and crying when he told her. She didn’t know how to tell him how brave she thought it was.

Eighth grade was worse. It was almost high school. He hadn’t even hit his growth spurt yet. Athena was still a bit taller than him.

_Meet me after school. –AW_

_Your friends will see me, remember? –CP_

_Right. I’ll double back. –AW_

_You don’t have to keep doing this. I’ll be fine. –CP_

_I said I’ll double back. –AW_

After that he didn’t question it. Their weird thing. Eventually Athena’s friends and the guys that lusted after her came to accept it. They were an odd sort of set deal.

Sophomore year, she remembered driving to his house at 8 pm, leaving early from a party. He had opened the door and not questioned it. They had sat on his bed in his room. Just sitting there. Not talking.

And then she had asked him, her voice breaking as she said it, “D-Do you think I’m a whore?”

“Doesn’t really matter what any idiot thinks, really, as long as _you_ don’t consider yourself a whore,” he had said casually.

She had felt a strange urge to hug him, and then acted on it, and found it rather nice, especially since he was now decently taller than her, “The idiots in question can kiss my ass,”

“Yeah, I knew some cursing was coming, that’s more like you than self pity anyway,” he had pat her head.

“You’re too pure,”

“I don’t like cursing,”

“Just out of curiosity, what do you think?” she asked.

“I think if I was stronger, and lifted more weights, and didn’t want to live long enough to graduate I’d fucking punch whoever said that,”

“You said the word,” she laughed, and over his shoulder she could see the two pictures on his bedside table, one of him and Mary, and the other of him and her, and she felt something strange in her heart that she found difficult to quantify.

Few people understood her love for physics and math. None of her other friends could tolerate the science rants at all. But he was quite clever in his way. He intuitively understood it. She had once gone off for a good hour about constants. How the universe was made almost like God was a mathematician. So many things had been found to be universally the same. The speed of light. The gravitational constant. And as she was rattling on and on and watching him listen and make sarcastic comments it suddenly hit her how much of a constant _he_ was. But of course, she hadn’t told him.

She didn’t have a habit of drinking too often. But there had been one part junior year. He didn’t go to parties, so he hadn’t been there. And even at the few parties he went to. He didn’t drink at all. She had called him because she hadn’t felt well enough to drive herself home. It had been 2 am. She was surprised he was still awake but he was. And he had come.

She had been so drunk. And she had been so happy, so surprised that he had come.

“You drove on the highway!” she had said happily upon seeing him.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” had been the only thing he said, putting her in the car, “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

They had stopped at a gas station on the way home and as he had gotten out to pump gas she had joined him, “You are so fine, you are so tall, such lovely blue eyes, why didn’t I notice before?”

He had blushed at that, “You’ve always said they’re my only good feature, but you don’t like to say nice things,”

She had been so drunk that she wouldn’t even remember asking this question the day afterward, “Do you love me, Chris?”

He had looked at her really hard for a few moments, “I’m almost done here, sit in the car,”

“You came all this way,” she had reasoned aloud, “You must love me. Why were you even awake?”

“I stayed up,” he confessed, “I knew you might call. I knew you wouldn’t call John. I couldn’t let you drive—like this. Now please, get in the car, put a seat belt on…”

They had gone back to the Watsons’ house. John had a case in the neighboring county. He wasn’t going to be home for two days anyway. So Chris had gone with her up the room. Brought water, alka-seltzer and put it on her bedside table.

She had kissed him then, because didn’t he deserve it after coming all this way? And it had felt better than she had expected. Fantastic even. He had really soft hair. And a really soft face. For a second or two he was kissing her back until he stopped. That was weird. Guys just didn’t stop kissing Athena Watson.

“What are you doing?” Athena asked.

“No,” he said, “No. Not like this. I’m _not_ going to kiss you and touch and sleep with you and become just one of those guys.”

“Why?” she crossed her arms, “I’m Athena fucking Watson.”

“Exactly. It’s you. You’re my friend.”

***

And after a moment or two, Athena had her answer, “Why the trouble, you ask?”

“Yes,” Artemis demanded, “What’s it to you?”

“He’s my friend.”   


	41. Sixteen Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes the time he's lost.

_I take it back. I like Chris. –AH_

_Good. –AW_

_We’re going out again tomorrow. –AH_

_That’s nice. –AW_

_You don’t sound as pleased as I expected. Jealous? –AH_

_No. –AW_

_Great. –AH_

***

“Ulysses,” Athena passed Jim by in the halls.

“Watson,” he smirked, “Is your sister free tomorrow?”

“She isn’t, she’s going on a date actually,” Athena froze, “Have you two been seeing each other?”

“Seeing, talking, interacting, oh it does bother you, that’s interesting, you should watch the pawns on your chess board more carefully, even a Queen can’t protect the King forever.” He laughed.

“I hate it when you do that,” Athena snapped, “Stay away from my sister. You’re no good.”

“Pot. Kettle. Black.” He said in his sing song voice.

“Jim I swear,” she lowered her voice, “I know what you’re capable of.”

He came close to her face, “Don’t you just love it? I could cut the tension with a knife.”

“Shut up,” she scowled, “You’re drawing attention.”

“Very well,” he did a mock bow and turned away, “Long live the queen.”

Athena sighed. Whatever did he mean by the chess analogy? That was going to bother her now. Until she figured it out. She knew he was trouble. She had known from the moment she had first met him. He had transferred here specifically from a private school, which was fishy. He had struck as odd immediately, strange things had begun to happen so she had done some investigating of her own. What was revealed had grown less and less shocking the longer she knew him.

Allegedly up to twelve sets of foster parents over sixteen years. That was a rapid turnover. No one she knew could tell her what exactly had happened at that private school, but she knew for certain that a student had gone missing. No witnesses. Highly suspicious. Then there was the hacking. He had things on her, she knew, so she knew better than to cross him directly. But there was something about that kid. It was attractive, surely, in a spiderlike, intense sense. But he was too much for Artemis to handle. Too much for anybody to handle, it seemed.  

***

Sherlock was typing up some research, resting the laptop on his knees. When John came out of the shower he was naked. And the truth suddenly hit Sherlock like a bullet. Looking at John now he could pinpoint millions of markers that indicated how much time had passed. They had lost sixteen years. _Sixteen years_.

He was always known as a logical person. But that didn’t mean he didn’t imagine things. Every day John had been gone he had imagined at least once or twice the life they should be having together. First day of school with John (Artemis missed this for a case, John wouldn’t have allowed it). Parent-teacher conference with John (Sherlock always managed to bungle up those). School plays with John (someone to give the sarcastic commentary).

He had also known one day that they would grow old. Artemis and Athena would go off to Uni. And then he and John would retire to the country. Just as it should be. They would have grandkids, probably. It should have been beautiful. And it was, in its own way, with Artemis, whom he loved more than he could have believed possible. But it wasn’t the same.

“Oi, quit ogling at my arse,” John said jokingly then noted the serious look on Sherlock’s face, “You’re making the face. Just spit it out.”

“You grew old,” Sherlock said.

“For some reason I didn’t think that would bother you, Sherlock.”

“It doesn’t bother me that you grew old,” Sherlock confessed, “It’s that we didn’t grow old together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So between Chris/Artemis, Chris/Athena, Jimmy/Artemis and Jimmy/Athena what do you think is going to win out?


	42. Stanford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Athena go college visiting in California.

Athena pondered the essay questions before her, _Please describe your family background and how it has shaped you as a person_ _500 words_. Well that was a tall order. Especially given recent events. _5 words that best describe you._ _A book that you have read this past year and how it has impacted you_. She had always hated book reports. _Who is your hero? Why do you look up to this person?_ Finally an easy one, John.

“I want to visit,” Athena announced over dinner.

“Generally a geographic location would be preferable within that statement,” Sherlock pointed out, “We can’t simply let you go to Nova Scotia, the mall however would be acceptable.”

“I want to visit California,” Athena clarified.

“For Berkeley?” Artemis looked up from texting.

“Stanford,” Athena corrected.

“Well I can’t get off work for a trip like that, that’s all the way across the country, why do you need to go that badly?” John asked.

“It’ll up my chances if I can get interviewed by an admissions representative there,” Athena explained, “I really want to go dad.”

“Last time I let you go on a trip you discovered your sister and went to Britain without my knowing,” John chided, “I just don’t think you can go. It’s a long way away. We’re busy down at the station—“

“I can go with her,” Sherlock said.

“Okay,” Athena agreed, “That’s fine isn’t it dad?”

“Yes,” John said, “That’s perfectly fine.”

But something in his tone indicated that it wasn’t.

***

“Sherlock,” John began when they were in bed together.

“That is my name,” Sherlock sighed.

“I don’t want her to go to Stanford,” John explained, “I could have gotten off work if I really tried. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for her to go that far. What with her tendency to—and it’s _California_.”

“Ah, the hippie state, did you really have to jump continents?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m serious Sherlock, she’s not, well she hasn’t _done_ anything yet and I don’t think she will, but I’d like to have her here. We live in Massachusetts. MIT is a 16 minute drive away. Harvard the same. Why _Stanford_?”

“Ah, so you’re upset I thwarted your plan,” Sherlock reasoned, “Weren’t you the one who told me earlier that you didn’t think she was a risk? When I pointed it out.”

“It’s complicated, Sherlock, she’s not a risk, I just don’t think she’s ready to move across the country,” John explained, “Where’s Artemis going to Uni?”

“Gap year remember.”

“I also don’t really appreciate her using you to sidestep my authority to get what she wants,” John said.

“Where is this going John?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t change the subject, we’re talking about Stanford.”

“The subject remains the same. You still aren’t comfortable with the idea of my making any decisions about her. Whenever Artemis asks a question like that you defer to me. Which suggests the question. Is this it? You say you love me. You say a lot of things John but you don’t act.”

“What do you want me to do?” John asked, “What do you want me to be? I love you, Sherlock, isn’t that enough?”

“There was a time John, I must admit, when I wanted nothing more than to just have you say that,” Sherlock confessed.

“And now?”

“I don’t just want to be your boyfriend.”

***

_Chris says hi. How’s the airport with Sherlock? –AH_

_You can imagine. You’re out again? –AW_

_We’re dating. That’s what people do. –AH_

_I talked to Jim. Have you been talking to him? –AW_

_He’s…interesting. –AH_

_Be wary. –AW_

_Why? –AH_

_He’s…interesting. –AW_

“You two were pretty cold this morning,” Athena pointed out.

“We had a bit of a disagreement, over you I might add,” Sherlock replied, “About me taking your side with this Stanford thing.”

“He’ll come around,” Athena said, “He’s pig headed but he’s not stupid.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, “And he’s going to kill me for this too.”

“For what?”

“You have to stop,” Sherlock said, “I see what you’re doing. You’re good at hiding the worst of it from John but you can’t fool me. I know where this goes.”

“Help me,” she said, surprised at her own words, “I can’t stop. I’m driving down a highway at 100 miles per hour. How do you stop it?”

“You don’t stop it, you find an outlet, it never stops,” Sherlock explained, “You can’t let it begin. That’s the only way to slow it down. Find something you like. Someone you like. That helps. That’s what finally fixed me.”

“Dad,” Athena realized.

“Then the two of you, my work,” Sherlock went on, “All correcting my craving for hyper stimulation.”

“I want to go to California to start over, place where no one knows me, focus on mathematics, research, I-I just don’t know how to tell Dad without telling him everything else.” Athena said.

“I’ll help you tell him, it will be alright, it gets better for people like us, it does.”

“Sherlock how do you know if someone loves you?” Athena asked.

“An excess of sentiment, no obvious gain to themselves, they’ll go out of their way. Shoot a cabbie for you the first day they know you. Call you brilliant.”

“Hmmm.”

“Anything you’d like to confess?” Sherlock asked.

“I want you to adopt me.”

“Isn’t it bad enough to have 50% of my genetics. Why would you possibly want that upon yourself?”

“You’re my father, you’re supposed to get me whatever I want.”

“I will ask John.”

***

_At Stanford_

“Nice school, sure you wouldn’t rather come to Cambridge? Oxford?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I’m an American.” Athena laughed.

“Worth a try,” Sherlock froze, “Let’s see if we can go find the math department.”

“No this is where my interview is.” Athena said, “Office of the Chemistry Department, Professor Victor Trevor. He liked my application so much he wanted to meet me himself. It’s an honor, Sherlock.”

“Well in that case, I’ll just wait outside for you.” Sherlock glanced at his phone, “About how long?”

“You studied chemistry, you don’t want to come inside? Are you okay? You look…put off,” Athena asked.

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock kept his face even, “I’d just prefer not to—“

“You must be Miss Watson,” a man emerged from the room, “I was told to expect you. The admissions department is very impressed. We hope you will consider Stanford very seriously—“

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, “Professor.”

“Holmes, isn’t it? Introductory Chemistry, yes, I believe that was it.” Trevor said smoothly, reaching his hand out, “You were a very _stimulating_ student.”

Sherlock looked at the hand a moment before shaking it quite quickly and withdrawing.

“You know each other?” Athena looked from Sherlock to Victor and back.

“I had him for many years, most competent student, very quick learner,” Trevor showed her in.

Sherlock waited outside.

“ _He’s_ your father?” Trevor asked.

“Excuse me?” Athena said sharply.

“No offense meant, when I knew him he wasn’t really the type, but I shouldn’t—“

“No,” she said, “Do go on. What was it you wanted to say?”

“You might not know this about him. You’d hardly find it palatable. Might lose your respect for—“

“My respect for a man is not a function of the circumstances of his past but his character, which for the record my _father’s_ character is immaculate.” She said icily.

“Your application has many merits, I was wondering if you could elaborate on—“ Trevor started to ask as they sat down by his desk.

“He visibly recoiled when he saw you, exhibited several signs, clear signs,” Athena said coldly.

“Your resume does show you’re very attentive, incredibly attention to detail, some might even call it genius,” Trevor didn’t address her comment.

“The genius I got from him, and the details tell me what kind of man you are, what did you do to him?” she snapped.

“If you’re as observant as you say then you know already.” Trevor answered.

“I should bring a case against you, you should not be allowed to abuse your authority in this manner, he wasn’t the only one, you’ve done it before, you still do it.”

“Believe me, given my eminence in the field bringing such a charge against me would end your career at Stanford and many other places,” Trevor said threateningly, “Besides, my girl, he _asked_ for it.”

“You’re vile, and my father and I do not need you, nor do we need Stanford, or any other place that tolerates such utter pieces of shit,” Athena got up and left.

“How did it go?” Sherlock asked innocently when she met him outside.

She smiled, not wanting to let him know, “Oh it went great. I just think my academic interests might lie elsewhere.”

Sherlock gave her a knowing look, “You know your father once punched the chief superintendent of the police for calling me a ‘bit of a weirdo’.”

Athena grabbed his hand, “Every Holmes needs a Watson.”

***

“Artemis,” John said, “I’ve made a tremendous mistake.”

“How bad could it be?” Artemis asked, “I’ll try and help.”

“Sherlock deserves everything from me, and I’ve been—stalling. I don’t know why. I’m an idiot. And I want him to know that I want to spend the rest of my life proving that by his side.”

“Oh my god. You’re not—“

“Artemis I want to ask your father to marry me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those aren't actually the questions on the Stanford supplement. But it just goes to show you though that even in fanfics, girls can't escape the trauma of personal essays and the American common application...


	43. Molly and Artemis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper is the mother Artemis never had.

_13 years earlier_

_London, UK_

“Artemis I was wondering if you’d like to get some ice cream,” Molly said to the four year old.

“Vanilla, two scoops please, I’ll be upstairs,” she giggled.

“Did Sherlock teach you that?” Molly asked.

“Yes, Aunt Molly,” Artemis sucked on her thumb.

“Sherlock,” Molly laughed exasperatedly.

“Couldn’t resist,” he looked up from his phone, “I-I do appreciate what you’re doing by the way. Mother daughter things at school. The other mothers have always found me to be a bit—“

“Off putting?” Molly offered.

“I was going to say hellish,” Sherlock corrected.

“It’s my pleasure, Sherlock,” Molly took Artemis by the hand, “Come along Artemis. We don’t want to be late.”

“This tea party thing? Is anyone going to be murdered?” Artemis asked.

Sherlock looked away innocently.

Molly sighed, “Let’s hope not.”

“Bye, Sherlock,” Artemis piped up, reaching out with her tiny hand.

Sherlock leaned down to shake it, and Molly had never seen him look at someone that tenderly, even John, “Miss Holmes.”

***

“Are you Mrs. Holmes?” Ms. Avery looked curiously at Molly, noting a lack of resemblance between her and Artemis.

“Aunt M-Molly,” Artemis said quickly.

“Mr. Holmes’ sister?” Ms. Avery asked.

“N-nope,” Artemis grinned.

“Is Mrs. Holmes going to be joining us later?” Ms. Avery inquired.

“There isn’t one, s-stupid,” Artemis laughed, “Sherlock’s g-gay.”

“Isn’t that nice,” Ms. Avery chuckled nervously.

“We’ll just go and sit over here,” Molly led Artemis away, “You can’t just call people stupid.”

“Sherlock says—“ Artemis began.

“I know what he says, goodness me do I know it, but there’s a time and a place to be smart, you take that from me, alright?” Molly scolded.

“Yes, Aunt Molly,” Artemis looked down at her shoes, “Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Molly asked.

“All the noise, noise, noise, noise, noise in my head,” Artemis said in a sing-song voice.

“Here tell you what, you take this tea cup, and I’ll put this tiara on your head and we’ll pretend you’re a princess.”

“Okay.” Artemis said genially, “Was I democratically elected?”

“Yes, you were.” Molly said, “You were also, um, put in charge of Parliament. And there’s a shortage of tea. And taxes are high. And your advisors are all running to you. What say you?”

“How’s inflation?” Artemis asked thoughtfully.

“Inflation?” Molly raised an eyebrow.

“That has to do with taxes right? I heard a fat man talking about it on television. Sherlock said some bad words about politicians and then Mrs. Hudson turned it off.” Artemis said very quickly.

“Inflation is—low,” Molly improvised, “The only tea available belongs to an enemy country.”

“Let’s invade!” Artemis said excitedly.

“A land war?” Molly asked.

“No a sea war, like a pirate, want to know a secret?” Artemis lowered her voice to a whisper.

“Alright, what?” Molly whispered back.

“Sherlock loves playing pirates.” Artemis said.

“Does he?” Molly said.

“All the time.” Artemis said.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Molly smiled.

“I don’t understand the joke with the ice cream,” Artemis changed the subject.

“The first time I met Sherlock I asked him if he wanted to have coffee with me. He interpreted that as me asking him if he’d like any coffee.” Molly explained.

“Oh, did you _like_ him?” Artemis widened her eyes.

“At the time, yes.” Molly admitted carefully.

“And now?” Artemis asked curiously.

“I don’t like him like that anymore. But I do love him. And his daughter.”

“He loves you too,” Artemis said matter-of-factly, “Even though he’s never gonna say it.”

“I know.”

“Thank you Aunt Molly,”

“What for?” Molly said.

“Sherlock says it’s something people say. And you made my head a little quieter.”

“I’m glad.”

***

_4 years earlier_

_Crisis. Please come. –SH_

_Sherlock? I’m at work in the lab. Can this wait? What happened? –MH_

_Artemis isn’t speaking to me. –SH_

_Whatever for? –MH_

_I’ve been made aware through my parenting textbook that this is the right age to give her ‘the talk’. Attempts to broach the subject have been unsuccessful. In order to avoid further awkwardness. I suggest you arrive immediately. –SH_

_You know she hates the book Sherlock. –MH_

_I was considering some anatomical diagramming. –SH_

_Even I hate the things in that book sometimes Sherlock. –MH_

_She didn’t even appreciate my joke, and I thought it was quite amusing. –SH_

_Don’t tell me. –MH_

_What’s the most effective method of birth control? –SH_

_Abstinence. –MH_

_Homosexuality. –SH_

_I can see why she’s not speaking to you. –MH_

_Could you come over? –SH_

_Yes. I can see the situation is pretty dire. –MH_

***

_2 years earlier_

“Artemis I was wondering—“ Molly began as she arrived in the living room, not at all surprised to see the slender 15 year old reclined on the sofa, her hands steepled under her chin.

“Congratulations,” Artemis said, not moving a muscle.

“Right, you would notice right away,” Molly scooted her legs over and sat next to her on the sofa.

“You’re glowing,” Artemis noted, “You really love Liam, don’t you?”

“I do,” Molly smiled, “And now there’s a wedding to plan, nothing big, just a few of our friends and family.”

“I can help you if you like,” Artemis offered.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you actually, I don’t know it’s something that’d interest you, probably not actually. But if you want. You could be my maid of honor.” Molly said.

Artemis sat up suddenly, “You would want me?”

“If you’d like to.” Molly said.

“Why me?” Artemis looked genuinely confused.

Molly tucked an errant curl behind Artemis’ ear, “We girls have to stick together Artemis. Besides, I’ve already asked Sherlock to be a part of the wedding.”

“A groomsman?” Artemis asked.

“No, I asked him to give me away.”

“What did he say?” Artemis asked.

“Yes, of course, I wouldn’t miss a chance to give Molly to the least irritating of her boyfriends, Liam’s not gay or a psychopath, I’d say you’ve struck gold,” Sherlock came in from the other room.

“Yes,” Molly looked at the two of them, “I think I have.”


	44. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis would be a terrible undercover operative.

“Sanjana Rajan,” Jim looked up from the monitor.

“What do you want with her?” Artemis paused her frantic typing.

“Well you said _you_ wouldn’t personally help me crack the system, and without simultaneous action I need the network passcodes to get past the defense layers.” Jim said dryly, “After all, don’t you owe me that much?”

“Get them yourself, I’m only here because I like studying what you’ve built. I couldn’t care less if your little plan succeeds,” Artemis said coldly.

“Wrong, don’t try that icy cover on me, I know better, you’re here because you like _me_ ,” Jim corrected.

“Acquire them yourself, and why you think that girl would have them escapes me.” Artemis said, not meeting his eyes.

“I’ve gotten a bit of a reputation around here, thanks to _your_ sister. Sanjana Rajan’s mother works for the NSC. And anyway, don’t you want to see if I can actually do it? I’ll show you the computer core if you do this. And more. If you finally get rid of that golden retriever you’re dating. Isn’t he a bit stupid for you? Don’t you want something a bit more _stimulating_?” Jim offered.

“I won’t commit a federal crime simply to satisfy my own idle curiosity,” she said sternly, not addressing his comment on Chris, though her heart rate jumped slightly at the word ‘stimulating’.

“Just go to her house, disable the security lockouts on _that_ network, I’ll hack it from here, you won’t be implicated,” he said smoothly.

“I don’t work for you,” Artemis said, “Not a chance.”

But when morning came she was at the Rajan place.  In one part of her racing mind she was there to find some way to warn them. As she knew with or without her help Jim would eventually get what he wanted. But a small voice in her head said no, she was here to do exactly what he had asked. And maybe, it said softly, maybe he knew that.

She rang the doorbell.

“Sanjana?” Artemis smiled, she wasn’t used to smiling like that, it probably looked odd.

“Artemis Holmes?” a short Indian-American girl with dimpled cheeks looked profoundly confused, “What-What are you doing here?”

“Right,” Artemis laughed, hoping that didn’t sound too fake, “I was in the neighborhood. And I was wondering if you wanted to go see a movie with me?”

“I’m sorry,” the girl asked, “Are we friends?”

“No,” Artemis said, “We’re not. But they’re doing a special showing of the classics. We both need that extra credit for Intro to Cinema class. So I thought what the hell!”

Oh dear god, Artemis thought, what was she doing…Damn it Jim.

“Okay,” Sanjana said, a curious look on her face, “Okay.”

 _Damn_. Did that actually work? For once, Artemis did not compute. She quickly looked over Sanjana. Only 5 1”. Large eyes, contacts, but from the impressions on her nose she wore glasses pretty often too. No boyfriend currently, recently broken up. Bookworm. Left handed. From the ink stains on her hands she was definitely an artist. Straight hair but not naturally so. Parents’ marriage arranged. Fair enough, so at least partly North Indian. But the last name had linguistic roots in the South. Mixed. Interesting. Straight nose, light colored eyes, so Aryan not Dravidian. Those dimples. A certain naiveté.

“Did you drive here?” Sanjana asked, “I thought you said you were in the neighborhood.”

“I was,” Artemis said, “I was driving through the neighborhood.”

“I see,” the other girl yelled something in a language Artemis didn’t understand to someone inside the house and then shut the door.  
  
“What was that? Kannada? Malayalam? Marathi? Hindi? I really have to learn more Indo-Aryan languages. I think I’ll start with _sanksrit_.” Artemis said.

“I’m just glad you didn’t ask me if I speak Indian,” Sanjana said, “That was Hindi. My dad speaks Tamil, my mom speaks Punjabi and at home we speak Hindi. And don’t learn Sanskrit. Nobody actually speaks that.”

“No I thought it might be a good idea, just for the roots of it all,” Artemis smirked at the fact that her deduction had been right, she was North/South mixed.

“Is that what you do then?” Sanjana asked, “Learn languages and go up to random peoples’ homes and ask them to go to the movies with you.”

“Erm…yes,” Artemis said, “That is what I do.”

“Okay, this is the part where we go to the car, I tell you GPS directions to the theater and we go.” Sanjana explained.

“I knew that, I’ve watched movies about this.” Artemis said.

“Sorry what?”

“I’ve seen movies about people being friends and doing things.” Artemis said.

“You have a boyfriend right? Chris Peterson and you are a thing? Don’t you two go out and have fun?” Sanjana asked.

“Boyfriend see. Different subgenre of movies for that. Romance. Or as Athena calls them ‘rom-coms’ if there’s an addendum of comic relief. Though I often find the humor involved to be rather juvenile. Though it does please the target audience. Raking in enough income to offset skyrocketing studio costs. Which is why the use of sets instead of live locations is becoming far more common in the industry. You can tell in certain scenes. If you know what to watch for. And I didn’t know he was known as my boyfriend yet. I should talk to him about that. Is it too early to talk about that? Too early seems desperate. Too late seems not interested. The key is balance, according to the films. And many reputed psychological journals on teenage relationships.” Artemis said quite quickly.

“You’re a lot you know that,” Sanjana said.

“I’ve been told.”

“Let’s go to the movie,” Sanjana said, “You can keep talking if you like.”

“Is it amusing you?” Artemis asked.

“Keep talking,”

***

Artemis had never really had a friend before. This was interesting. This was new. In the car they flipped to an 80s’ music station, which Artemis found she preferred over Athena’s top 40 mix. Sanjana gave directions, seeming genuinely amused at Artemis’ comments on everything. Artemis hadn’t realized she was this interesting of a person. The movie was nice she supposed. But it was weird seeing one with a girl her own age that wasn’t her exact mirror image. And just through observation Artemis noted the moments in the film she was supposed to find funny or touching and managed to replicate an adequate emotional response to them. As a result she had spent most of the movie’s screentime watching Sanjana rather than the film. Naturally she wasn’t extremely moved. They were sharing popcorn, and her comment on the sexual tension normally created by popcorn sharing among heterosexual people in romantic comedies got a laugh from Sanjana, who seemed to find Artemis really, really hilarious.

Artemis for her part didn’t dislike Sanjana, and felt genuinely sorry for using her in this manner. Nevertheless, they went to get ice cream afterward. And Sanjana pointed out normal things like pointing out guys they found attractive, general small talk tips, American fashion. Which Artemis put down in the mind palace. Interesting. New.   

After that they wandered around main street. They walked through the library. And at 5 pm Artemis dropped the girl home.

“You’re a riot,” Sanjana smiled, “You’re so much at once.”

“If I may ask why were you so willing to do this? We don’t know each other,” Artemis pointed out.

“You drove all the way over here to see a movie. You do seem like the kind of person to have an ulterior motive. But one hasn’t presented itself. I was curious. At school. You keep to yourself a lot. You shouldn’t.” Sanjana said rationally.

“I am the kind of person that has ulterior motives,” Artemis said, “For everything. Calculated responses are very effective in manipulating a situation for the desired goal.”

“You like talking. You like telling people things. Why don’t you?” Sanjana asked.

“Safer that way,” Artemis said, “Less you say less people can dislike. At my other school in London I found that out.”

“Come around again tomorrow after school if you’re free,” Sanjana said.

“Why’s that?” Artemis asked.

“So you can talk,”

***

Sanjana had made a checklist of things girls did together. Artemis had dismissed it as inane. But they had gone through every one. Painting nails. Done. Artemis now had odd purple bird like things on all 20 fingers. Clothes shopping and dress shopping. Also done. Doing each other’s makeup. Artemis had never worn mascara before. So that was an experience. She also almost poked Sanjana’s eye out. Slumber party. John had been surprised that she had one but Artemis had taken the new experience in stride. She had met Mrs. Rajan, which was a step forward in her ultimate plan. Pillow fight. Done. Artemis had won. Artemis hated losing. And so on. Until the bottom of the list. Truth or dare.

“Must we though?” Artemis asked, eating the popcorn Sanjana had microwaved, feeling odd and girlish sitting on this sleeping bag.

“We _must_ ,” Sanjana said, “I’ll go first. Truth or dare?”

“The truth one,” Artemis had some more popcorn.

“What’s the best kiss you’ve ever had?” Sanjana asked slyly.

“Oh, that. I’ve never.” Artemis answered.

“I’ll ask something else then—“

“What does it feel like?” Artemis asked.

“Nice I suppose. I don’t really know how to describe that. It’s not the sexiest thing the first time. Especially if you never have.” Sanjana attempted to explain.

“I have data on everything. Everything else. It doesn’t seem to me like it would work, noses and things getting in the way. I honestly don’t even know why people want to. Why would you press your lips to someone else’s anyway? What does that do? Why? Why would you do that? And I think things all the time. And I’ve wondered about it, I’ve always thought Sherlock, my father, was the same way, but he loves kissing John. It’s different you know, maybe. If it’s the correct person. I thought maybe that was the missing variable.” Artemis said.

“It’s amazing when you talk, it’s like a symphony,” Sanjana said.

“I should have brought my violin.”

“Why don’t you kiss Chris?” Sanjana asked.

“You know, she says one thing. But I feel like Athena would have a problem with it. I don’t know why.” Artemis said.

“Don’t you have a problem with it too?”

“Why would _I_ have a problem with it?” Artemis asked.

“It’s not him you like, not really, is it that Jimmy? Ulysses. Do you like him?” Sanjana probed.

“It’s hard to tell. I’ve never done this before,” Artemis confessed.

“Not every problem has to be complicated, don’t think. Just see what you feel like.”

“I don’t know what I feel. My heart is a very hollow place,” Artemis said.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Sanjana said, hugging Artemis, which was weird, Artemis didn’t hug people she wasn’t related to, ever.

And just then. Right at that moment. Artemis realized that in just a matter of time she would be stabbing in the back someone who was perhaps her first real friend, one she had made all by herself. She realized that. And she hated it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really just wanted to give Artemis a friend who's a girl and not her sister so she can talk out some of her things. I was also amused at the idea of her being at a slumber party and doing typical girl things. Basically Artemis navigating social behaviors she hasn't explicitly studied is fun to write. There was also a lack of people of color in this fic. Unless you count Sally, who gets like 3 lines of dialogue. So this chapter happened.


	45. Ballet and the Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis and Athena come to some realizations with the help of their parents.

“Why are we still here? Don’t you want to head back to Boston?” Athena asked.

“John needs some time alone, to think, and besides, I’ve always liked the sea,” Sherlock continued to walk a few steps in front of her on the shore, mere feet from the waves.

“It’s so peaceful here,” Athena said, “I would have thought you’d hate it.”

“Listen to me,” he jerked around and grabbed her by the shoulders, “Okay. Take it from someone who took _years_ , wasted _years_ to figure this out. There is actually nothing wrong with a little peace. Be that what it may. Peace of mind. Peace of health.”

Athena seemed a bit shocked, “But normal’s boring. Ordinary people are boring.”

“Sit down,” Sherlock sat down in the sand and waited as she sat down tentatively beside him.

“Is this going to be one of those spiritual life lessons because that usually doesn’t work on me,” Athena began to say.

“This one will, balance of probability,” Sherlock pointed at the ocean, “The tides come in with clockwork regularity. The water is made of millions of little particles. The sand of a million little particles. You like math don’t you? That’s data. A million terabytes wouldn’t be enough to hold it. But a grain of sand, by itself, it’s ordinary isn’t it? It’s the same as all the others. But it isn’t. I didn’t know, before, I was wrapped up in being bored, or not bored, or being after some case or constantly trying give myself a reason to stay awake. I didn’t even realize what I had, I didn’t see that there was someone with me who was madly in love with me. And on the outside yes, your Dad is an ordinary man, Athena. He is not a genius. He is not incredibly fast, or incredibly strong. But he is exceptional.”

“I know he is,” Athena said a bit defensively.

“For that matter Athena, we don’t come from what you’d call extraordinary either. You’ve never met my parents. My father worked from 9-6, he had a boring desk job, and I’m not even sure he liked it. My mother stayed at home and tended to the house and liked looking up new things to cook. I thought they were so boring. I didn’t appreciate them, because I was like you. On fire. All these years later though I still think they’re ordinary. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care for them.” Sherlock went on, “You’re very clever. You’re restless. You’re easily addicted. You use people. You manipulate.”

“If I’m like that it’s because of what you are,” Athena said.

“You don’t have to be like what I was, you can be your own person, you don’t have to waste twenty years of your life chasing one thing and not be happy. It’s ridiculous. And it’s stupid.” Sherlock snapped.

“I don’t know. I’ve looked for what might make me happy. I’ve never been right. The awards, the popularity, the parties, the sex, the alcohol, the drugs. None of it worked, Sherlock. None of it.” Athena said sadly.

“Doesn’t have to be tangible. Tell you what, if you tell me what it is you want. I’ll help you find it,” Sherlock offered.

“What makes you think you can find it?”

“World famous consulting _detective_ , hello? And anyway, like you said, I am your father and I’m therefore supposed to get you what you want, within reason.” Sherlock said.

“I-I want a nice whole family, you and John to get married again and Artemis and I visiting every so often and being together, the four of us. That made me happy. I want to study, I want to know everything there is to know about math. I want to drown in it. I don’t want to be _Athena_ _Watson_ anymore I don’t want her pointless relationships and her cronies and her politics. I want to be myself.” Athena said, a rush of emotions going through her head and releasing as a long exhale.    

“You’re going to be alright,” Sherlock said, “I am proud of you, Athena. No matter what transpires. You’re aware of that?”

“I’m proud of you too,” Athena said.

“For what?”

“You were going to let me go ahead with the interview. You didn’t say anything and if I hadn’t figured it out—“ Athena said.

“John and I decided when we chose to have you that we weren’t going to let our own pasts and our problems get in the way of anything you two wanted to do. We didn’t want you to end up as messed up and confused as we once were before we found each other. In retrospect sometimes I think we could have done better. But then again I am always a critic of my own work.” Sherlock cut in.

“I hated him, Trevor,” she said suddenly, “Why did you—why did you let him?”

Sherlock looked out towards the sea, “I was your age. I wanted to live. But I didn’t know how. I wanted to feel things.”

“You were seventeen,” she said simply.

“And now you are, and chances are with my genes and John’s, plus the rate of advancement in medical technology, you have another ninety years at least to go find your heart. If you’re lucky it’ll be in a dream, in an idea, or the best one—in another person’s chest.”

“Yours is.”

“Three people.”

***

When she was nine years old Artemis had first seen the ballet. She adored their grace, their perfect form, the orderliness in which they danced. Like clockwork. She had asked to go again. There were many shows she liked, among them Swan Lake. She joined a special orchestra simply to play live and be close to the dancers when they did shows. She would watch their rehearsals. For someone who hated casual dancing herself, she really did love the ballerinas. They were beautiful. She blushed when she bumped into them backstage. She could barely get up the courage to talk to them after rehearsals, or accept their compliments on her solo performances on the violin. And she wasn’t the type at that point in her life to play shy. That was the first indication.

When Sherlock had tried and Molly had given her the talk she had not understood. She had thought that maybe she was too young. But she didn’t feel as if she had ever felt the kind of attraction towards a boy that would inspire the actions Molly had explained. At the time she had brushed it off. But that was the second indication.

In the movies Artemis watched she had favorite actresses. Sometimes she would watch just for them. Cate Blanchett, Angelina Jolie, young Elizabeth Taylor and Vivien Leigh. When girls at school would talk about boys she learned what comments were appropriate. Sometimes when she was out with Athena and then the few times with Sanjana she knew which boys were supposed to be attractive. But practically speaking she had always felt that she was drawn more to beautiful women. Maybe that was simply ego talking? After all, Artemis herself was a woman. And she had been told she was quite lovely. That was the third indication.

The last came at lunch with Chris. After they had eaten they had been talking about some pleasant topic or another and he had put his hand on hers and she had let him. He had leaned in to kiss her but instead of leaning forward like a normal person might, she leaned back. He had let the moment drop. And they had pretended like it never happened. Leaving together and laughing about something else. But Artemis knew at last that something was the matter.

A flurry of thoughts went through her head as she drove herself home. The images of dancing ballerinas in her head. The poster she had once had in her room of Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra. Ballerinas twirling and twirling. Her lack of interest in Chris and Jimmy. Her total lack of desire to kiss them. What does it mean? What does it mean?

She pulled up to the curb near the house and braked the car. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, letting her mind go wild, before the door opened and John sat down next to her in the passenger seat.

“Artemis you’ve been sitting here for god knows how long, I just came home from work a half hour ago. It’s six pm. Didn’t you go out for lunch at one?” John asked worriedly.

“I did,” Artemis said simply, her voice smaller and younger than it had been in years.

“Did something happen with Chris?” John asked.

“No, he’s lovely, he really is, it’s not that.” Artemis said, “It’s not him. It’s _me._ ”

“Are you alright?” John put a hand on her forehead, feeling for a temperature, “Do you want to go inside and rest a bit?”

“No, I’m not physically unwell.”

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong, Artemis. You’re scaring me.” John said softly.

“I told Sherlock about my gap year to buy me some time. For a long time now I’ve not wanted to go to Uni to study science and math, or engineering.” Artemis explained.

“What do you want to do then?” John asked.

“I want to compose, it’s the only thing that makes my head really, really quiet. I want to study music in an orchestra and write symphonies and conduct them myself. It’s just, we always said that once I graduated I could come work with him as a detective like I have been. It was our promise. And I don’t want to leave him alone. I don’t even know if he’ll think what I want is even a real career at all.” Artemis said quietly.

“He won’t say that, first of all, he wants you to be happy, and if he does say that, second of all, I’ll knock some sense into him, after all he hasn’t had a _real_ job himself in years. And lastly, he won’t be alone, not anymore, that’s my promise.” John said, “That’s a problem for you, I can see that it is. But that wasn’t the reason why you’ve sat in this car for four hours.”

“I don’t want to date Chris,” Artemis said.

“You don’t have to,” John said simply.

“No, it’s not just him, I-I don’t know how to say it, it’s something to do with ballerinas, not really, it shouldn’t be this hard to say to you but it is, and I’ve just—“

“You’re my little girl, there’s no mistake too big, nothing you can do that would make me care for you any less,” John said.

“Dad,” Artemis said slowly, “I like girls. Is that okay?”

At this John embraced her tightly and she buried her nose in the cloth of his jumper, “It’s fine, Artemis, it’s all fine. You know that. I love you so much.”

For the first time in her life, Artemis began to cry.


	46. The Airport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is not what it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's rather short, sorry. The updates building from this will be longer.

It was strange to John, after being apart from Sherlock for so many years, that only a few days away from him were almost unbearable. It was easy, too easy, to go back to having him as a fixture of his life. He looked over the old pictures of them in Spain. London. Baskerville. Good times. Those had been good times.

He decided to meet him at the airport. He asked Artemis if she wanted to come but she said she had some work to do. Which was fine really, it was a fairly short drive. He had brought the old ring, and despite how much Sherlock outwardly loathed cliché he was sure he would enjoy the drama of an airport proposal.

It took them longer than he expected to get to where John was waiting at arrivals, the plane had touched down an hour later than scheduled, something about a storm on the West Coast. When he saw the two of them talking together so animatedly he reached for the ring in his pocket, thought through the words like he had rehearsed them.

_Sherlock, I was so wrong all this time, we lost a lot of the past but we have the future._

_Will you marry me?_

Balance of probability, as Sherlock liked to say, it would work. He had gotten a yes before, after all. All those years ago. He felt a strange, throbbing pain in his chest. That was weird.

They were coming closer. Sherlock looked at him hesitantly for a moment before dropping his carry on luggage and kissing him on the mouth right in the middle of the terminal.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock looked around at the people gawking at them, “Never seen a consulting detective kiss his ex husband before?”

“It’s not common, no,” Athena laughed, looking to Sherlock, then she glanced over at John, her eyes widening in shock as she grabbed his arms to steady him.

“What’s happening?” she said, almost shrieking, even though she knew the answer.

“Call the American emergency number,” Sherlock recognized the symptoms immediately, “He’s gone into  cardiac arrest.”

***

“Sanjana,” Artemis began slowly, “I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

“I didn’t expect you to have been to be honest,” Sanjana sighed.

“No, listen,” Artemis said, “I’ve been using you for your connections.”

“My connections? Oh, my mother,” Sanjana got up and paced, twirling her black hair around her fingers.

“That was fast, you caught on fast,” Artemis said, and the quickness of Sanjana’s response sent her mind into overdrive.

“You judge people too quickly Artemis, a lot of the times they can behave a certain way, fit a certain stereotype and be more than you expect,” Sanjana pointed out.

“No way,” Artemis said in disbelief, “I wasn’t wrong about you.”

“You can’t get passcodes from my mother Artemis, my mother doesn’t work for the NSC, Artemis,” Sanjana said finally, “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the catalyst for the remaining 5-6 chapters of the story, which will be a lot longer. Artemis' failure to recognize Sanjana is meant to parallel Sherlock's inability to recognize the true identity of Mary in HLV. Jim, Chris, Artemis and Athena will be resolved parallel to the main John/Sherlock dynamic. As the events of the chapter are essentially the reverse scenario of the Reichenbach Fall, John and Sherlock will finally deal with the real problem that's preventing them from moving forward in their relationship.


	47. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis makes a fateful decision whilst multiple lives hang in the balance.

There are few greater intimacies than holding someone’s head in your lap, or resting your head in theirs. Sherlock had believed himself to be immune to the sudden surges of emotion, centered in the chest region, that arose on occasions when he fell asleep on or about John and woke up so that John’s hands were carding through his hair. But he was wrong. He liked it just as much as anyone else probably would. Possibly more.

John, for his part, knew perfectly well that Sherlock was unused to such displays of tenderness, projecting an image of cool indifference, mocking human contact and especially sentiment at all times. Instead of giving him less affection as a consequence, however, he thought this as perhaps the greatest reason to give him more. Even after all this time, after they had been to hell and back together, after Sherlock had admitted to loving him back utterly and completely, there was still a part of John that just craved him, _wanted_ him. It was this want more than anything, save perhaps his girls, that tethered John to life itself. There was still a part of John that loved Sherlock so much that he was afraid it would tear him apart.

In the ride to the hospital Sherlock died every second, he barely felt the presses of Athena’s hand in his, only looking up out of a sense of responsibility to calm her silent terror. How could he not have noticed John was vulnerable to a heart condition? He must be getting slow. But he didn’t even have the energy to blame himself. Caving instead to fear. Had this been how John had felt? After he thought he had lost Sherlock? Was this the pain? No, that had been sure, this way, Sherlock calculated based on available facts, there was a 3.56% shot that John would survive. Sherlock forgot how to breathe then remembered. It was vaguely an out of body experience as he heard his own voice shouting at the paramedics and the emergency people but didn’t quite know what he was saying. He was running on an odd sort of autopilot, his other systems in an emotional freefall and defaulting to a pure logic mode.

It was only in the waiting room as John was taken into the surgery that could save him or kill him that Sherlock found himself calling Artemis and briefly came back into himself. He observed a tremor in her voice even before he told her his news, there was some minor trouble on her end, but the drumbeat of his mind _John John John John_ was too loud now for the voice deducing Artemis to get any say at all.

“What do we do now?” Athena asked, wringing her hands, her face white and pale with fear.

 _John John John John John John John John_. His mind beat out a constant rhythm. And if she was anyone else in the world he would have brushed her aside to keep listening to the music. But she wasn’t just anyone. _What would John do?_ A helpful voice suggested over the din of the drumbeat.

He beckoned her over to sit in the chair right next to his and she nestled herself into the crook of his arm and buried her nose into the now familiar smell of his scarf. He wrapped his arm a little tighter around her, feeling a blip of comfort in the landscape of pain at the sudden feel of her solid warmth against him.

“He’ll pull through,” Sherlock lied, something he was altogether unused to doing.

“Wrong, no he won’t, I can deduce the signs for myself,” Athena said, “Tell me the truth. Only the truth.”

“The true undeniable definition of the truth is open to interpretation,” Sherlock said.

“Some things are absolute,” she replied.

“This is the only truth you’ll need then for the rest of your life. And not one you probably expected to get from me,” Sherlock began, “It’s incalculably difficult to acquire true love in a lifetime. Too often sentiments are too shallow, one sided, selfish. I am a difficult man. Thus what is hard for all became even harder for me. I am altogether dismissive, occasionally cruel, childish, egotistical to the extreme. The only way I ever knew I was a good person was because John Watson loved me. He loved me and I left him. Then I came back and he left me. All things being equal we could have stayed away, lived out our lives. Fate it seems had other plans. Remember it Athena, remember it always ever minute every second you live. There are two people in this world to whom you owe your love. John Watson and the person who looks at you the way John Watson looks at me. Like I was everything. Everything that was and everything that ever would be.”

Athena’s phone beeped.

_Can’t come to hospital. –AH_

_Why not???? –AW_

_Crisis. Jim broke the NSC firewall without the passcodes. I have Sanjana with me. I’m unsure not but I believe her to be some sort of software prodigy. I could use her to counter the attack remotely. –AH_

_What the hell are you talking about Artemis? What are you into? What is this? –AW_

_I’ve been helping Jim with a large scale computer hack. I was attempting to acquire passcodes from Sanjana, but she revealed herself to be far more competent than I had erroneously assumed. No time to go into more detail. –AH_

_Stop him then? Then come right here. Dad’s in real trouble. –AW_

_He’s not the only one. I need you. –AH_

_Why. Don’t you understand? Dad could die. Come here. –AW_

_I know. And it’s killing me. But I have to stop this. I’ve recently discovered Jim’s been in contact with an S. Moran, who’s been in a high level prison for about sixteen years. He was an associate of the late James Moriarty. I’m willing to bet Jim’s larger plan has profound implications. –AH_

_Use Sanjana then. –AW_

_I can’t. –AH_

_Why? –AW_

_I think Jim has Chris. He wouldn’t have started the hack without some sort of collateral against me if I discovered the truth at the inopportune moment. Please come. I need you. –AH_

_You know the real Jim better than I do. Would he hurt him? –AW_

_Yes. –AH_

_Give me the address. –AW_

_Don’t tell Sherlock the truth. –AH_

_What do I tell him? –AW_

_He’s not in any state to be of help right now. And I want him out of the line of fire. Dad’s going to be in surgery for approximately the next 5.4 hours. It’s a hospital, give him a controlled dosage of a sleep inducing drug, he’ll come to right as Dad does, god willing. In the meantime hide him in a hospital bed, where it’s unlikely he could be located. Don’t immediately come to 556 Briar Avenue. Go home. Dad’s off duty gun is in a safe in the closet, the code is S.H.E.R.L.O.C.K. –AH_   

_Of course it is. –AW_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, not telling Sherlock is not the first of a series of bad, bad ideas.


	48. The Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock warns Athena about the dangers of playing the game.

Chris waited in the dark for his captor.

Jim for his part seemed almost surprised to see him there, though it was by his own design of course that the other boy was shackled to the desk upon which sat just one of the many computers with which he would bring about his own little Armageddon upon the picture perfect world of the Holmes’ and the Watsons.

“Let me help you,” the blonde boy said all of a sudden.

“This technology is far beyond your comprehension,” Jim scoffed.

“No,” Chris struggled to push himself upright against the wall, grazing his wrists against the wood of the table legs, “You think this is going to make you feel good. It won’t. I know her. She’s smarter than you and she’ll beat you. But she feels the same way you do inside. I’ve seen it. And this. Holding me here. Makes no difference.”

 

“Fascinating,” Jim paused his frantic typing, “You think Artemis won’t come for you.”

“I’m not stupid, and neither is she.” Chris said simply.

“You are stupid actually,” Jim remarked, “You aren’t here for Artemis. I don’t think she’ll bestir herself for you when her father is in trouble. And this will make me feel good. Better than good. Marvelous.”

Chris gulped, “Who am I here for?”

“Oh dear,” Jim shook his head and sighed, “Father was right. Ordinary people are adorable. You blithering idiot. You’re here for Athena.”

***

It had been a calm spring morning. If 4 am counts as being morning more than night, which John thought it did not. Athena and Artemis were only a few months old, at the stage where they liked to touch and lick and prod at everything (John suspected that in their tiny Sherlockian minds they might be deducing the world around already), and their parents were at the stage where every minute, every second of sleep is precious and endangered. And they would have been sleeping, John with his hand thrown across Sherlock’s back and the girls all dry and fed and blissfully asleep. But Sherlock had had a better idea.

 

“Let’s go for a picnic, John,” he had said sleepily.

“What the hell, Sherlock,” John had grumbled.

“For the girls, it would be nice,” he had argued.

“No,” John had grunted, then paused a moment, “There’s a case of some kind out in the middle of the country and you’re tricking me into going.”

“Do you really think so little of me John?” Sherlock had sat up suddenly in the bed, crossing his arms.

“I have two children already and I’d really rather not have three,” John had sighed, but Sherlock was in a mood and it was probably his own fault but why did the man want to go on a picnic for god’s sakes and he wanted to sleep and basically bugger it all.

 

“I was thinking about it all night,” Sherlock had said.

“Even when we were--great nice to know I’m not too distracting.” John had sat up as well and rubbed his eyes, hoping for a quick end to this conversation.

“Not then,” Sherlock had said quickly and John had almost felt bad, but not that bad. It was after all 4 am.

“I’m not a mind reader,” John had offered, taking the other man’s hand and running circles over it, Sherlock liked that sometimes.

“It’s the earliest memory I have, and a nice one, I want them to have it too,” Sherlock had said.

“I’d like to see Mycroft on a picnic,” John had said lightly, but he squeezed Sherlock’s hand tightly, “You know if we go today they won’t even remember.”

“Exactly,”

“What?”

“We’ll do it a few times now when they don’t remember it so that we can get it right and we do it often enough when they can so that odds are when they’re older this will be the memory they land on, not a stupid fight between us or a dead dog or something else, this. Of course they’ll remember that other stuff as well. Mind like that. Impossible to forget.”

“How well do you remember?” John had asked.

“I remember every detail of her dress, the scent and brand of her perfume, the number of white hairs on my dad’s head, the precise contents of the picnic basket, the color, age and texture of the blanket, the sweat on my brother’s hand in mine, the unsteadiness in his walk undoubtedly caused by some sort of injury--I think he fell off a bicycle at some point and never liked physical activity ever since, the exact order and variety of wild animals, the color of the butterflies, the sound of the wind, everything John.”

“How old were you?”

“Two and a half,”

“That is _brilliant_ ,”

“You’ll never tire of saying that will you?”

“No,” John had said, and Sherlock had smiled that special smile that was only for him and their children.

“And yours?”

“It’s blurrier than yours of course,” John had confessed, “I was playing cricket in the grounds in front of our house and someone hit the ball way far out and I chased it and was going to bring it back but I ran into a bloody bird with broken wings, I think it was a sparrow I don’t really remember now to be honest, I remember bringing it back to my mother and asked her if I could nurse it back to health and she said it was better to put it out of its misery and she snapped its neck right there,”

“And Doctor John Watson loses his first patient,”

“It hurts more than anything you know, even now, the ones you just can’t save,”

“It isn’t your fault,”

“Knowing that doesn’t help, anyway, do you remember everything this clearly? Will you remember today like that? Or is that only for important days?”

“There’s only a few days of my life that I’ve lost, mostly because of well, let’s not go there now, but other than that, I have every day in my mind, I can play it like videotape,”

“What do you like to play? Science experiments I suppose. The best cases. The game with Irene.”

“The first time you kissed me, the first time you touched me the way--” Sherlock had coughed, “Everything about them. I don’t want to forget a single second and I don’t.”

John didn’t really mind being awake now, “We’ll take them someplace nice, some place they’ll never forget. I’m sorry about grumbling earlier, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now.”

Sherlock had laughed, “I’ll let you sleep if you like, I was going to go check on them anyway.”

He had gotten up then and John committed the image of his silhouette in the door to memory, so thoroughly and precisely that in the years that Sherlock was gone it would come to haunt him.

“I love you,” John had suddenly, because he felt like this was something Sherlock should remember forever too.

“I’m just in the other room,” Sherlock had pointed out, “I’ll come right back to bed. To you.”

“I know you’ll come back, Sherlock,” John had said the phrase then happily, though it felt so much louder in the years after the fall, and he himself had begun to doubt it.

“Just go to sleep would you John? I’m not going anywhere, I’m yours, I said some vows and bought a ring and made some twins just to prove it,”

“We’ll go on that picnic,” John had said, before settling down to sleep, “We’ll remember it forever.”

***

Athena lightly pressed in the needle into her father’s arm, and he had barely noticed, she knew, that the sleeping drug was slowly making its way into his bloodstream. The needle had been clean, but the drug was powerful and she knew he had only minutes of consciousness as she led him to an empty hospital bed. Already Sherlock was losing clarity quite rapidly.

She lay him nicely on the bed and he smiled in understanding, “I see then, no doubt Artemis is involved in this on the other end, it’s too late for me if this is what I think it is. You love me too much to poison me so sleep it is.”

“I have to do this,” Athena said, “I had no choice.”

“That’s what I told him, you know what he did? Of course you do. There’s little you don’t know.”

“Will he be okay?” she asked tearfully.

“Will you?”

“No, what do you think?” she exclaimed angrily, “I-I don’t know what to do without him. He’s always been there. We-we used to go on picnics when we first came here it was the earliest thing I remember. I remember so much about it. Everything actually. The colors of his jumper. Is that weird? I can’t have been more than three.”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

“What do I do?” she asked.

 

“Be careful,” he said, “And I would thrash and try and get up but I know what you’ve done to me and it won’t be any use so listen. Stop listening to your heart for a moment. That’s the only way to play the game with these people. Make the right moves no matter how hard they are. Protect yourself. Okay? Listen to me. It’s all a game to him. You have to play. You can win. And if it comes down to it. If it’s me he wants let him have me. He knows your heart and that’s the problem. The final problem.”

 

“I won’t let him have you,” she said.

“That decision was already made by me years ago, the decision that tore our family apart. I didn’t know for sure that I would survive when I jumped. There was only probability. There is always only probability and the choice.”

“It’s my choice now,” she said rather darkly.

“There’s someone else there too, the boy, would you die for him?”

“I’d certainly jump,”


End file.
